


Let me Take you for a Ride

by sigh_no_more



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, descriptions of past violence, hopefully not too graphic but just a head's up, the Amis wear suits and steal stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 12:50:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sigh_no_more/pseuds/sigh_no_more
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We have a case,” Joly sighed, knowing when to pick his battles. “It’s them.”</p><p>Grantaire raised his head an inch. “You mean?”</p><p>“The Amis. They pulled another job.”</p><p>Grantaire’s interest in Les Amis was purely professional, no matter what Joly liked to imply otherwise. He was a freelance detective, so naturally if there were a few high profile heists linked to the same group who had yet to be caught, he was curious. And yes, he might be slightly more fixated on Orestes than the rest, but only because Orestes appeared to be the leader, and learning more about Orestes meant learning more about the group as a whole. </p><p>or: Grantaire is a famous, semi-retired detective. The Amis steal from the rich, and Grantaire gets sucked into their world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First (and second) looks

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Live in Living Color" from "Catch me if you Can".

It was dark – just the way Grantaire liked it. The curtains of his room were drawn almost all the time. It was a multi-purpose room: part bedroom, part study, part library, part studio, and part laboratory (although the ‘science’ he did there was hardly scientific). Grantaire was currently sprawled on his mattress which had been shoved in a corner when he decided it was too much work to leave his collection of things and go to his bedroom every night. Not that he abided by any particular sleep pattern. He went to sleep when he was tired and woke up when he felt properly refreshed. It was part of the appeal of constantly having the curtains drawn- he never knew what time of day it was.

Until now. Because someone had yanked the curtains back, and the sunlight was rudely streaming on Grantaire’s face.

“Hey boss,” Joly said, handing Grantaire a cup of coffee.

Grantaire grunted. It was still too early for pleasantries. Or consciousness.

“Shut. Curtains,” he managed.

Joly tsked. He had annoying ideas about ‘fresh air’ and ‘not constantly being locked up in one room’. “It’s eleven o’clock on a Monday. You really should get up.”

“What for?” Grantaire grumbled. 

Joly didn’t answer. The room was now bright enough so that he could clearly see around the room, including the macabre painting that rested on Grantaire’s easel.

“I thought the nightmares stopped,” Joly said quietly surveying the ghastly image. Red and black were the painting’s predominant colors. A headless corpse was the focal point of the piece. The various extremities weren’t connected to the torso. Instead, the arms and legs rested in boxes laid out close to where they _should_ be, if they were attached to the body.

“Well they came back,” Grantaire grumbled.

“Any idea what triggered it?”

Grantaire’s response was to kick over the easel and yank the covers on his head. He didn’t like talking about his art. It was an outlet for him to deal with the string of crimes that happened nearly two years ago. The crime spree that ended with Grantaire getting kicked out of the London police force and put into rehab. The only reason he painted was because apparently drinking yourself to death wasn’t a healthy coping mechanism- at least, not according to Joly. Grantaire didn’t really give a damn about his liver, but Joly did, and so Grantaire was trying.

“We have a case,” Joly sighed, knowing when to pick his battles.

“No we don’t,” Grantaire rolled over, burying his face in his pillows.

Grantaire rarely took cases any more. What was the point? No matter how many bad guys he helped put away, more would inevitably spring up. Even crime after a while became mundane. He only came out of his semi-retirement when a case especially piqued his interest.

“R-”

“No.”

“It’s them.”

Grantaire raised his head an inch. “You mean?”

“The Amis. They pulled another job.”

This got Grantaire to sit up properly. “Next time start with that.”

Joly rolled his eyes. “Next time I promise to start with the fact that the man you fancy robbed from more rich people again.”

“I don’t fancy anyone,” Grantaire snapped.

Grantaire’s interest in Les Amis was _purely_ professional, no matter what Joly liked to imply otherwise. He was a freelance detective, so naturally if there were a few high profile heists linked to the same group who had yet to be caught, he was curious. And yes, he might be slightly more fixated on Orestes than the rest, but only because Orestes appeared to be the leader, and learning more about Orestes meant learning more about the group as a whole.

It was difficult _not_ to pay attention to Orestes. The Amis weren’t you’re run of the mill thieves. Oh no. They had only pulled two jobs (well, now apparently three), as far as anyone knew, but they only targeted the rich and corrupt. Not only would they steal from their victims, but they left behind a mountain of evidence of wrongdoing perpetrated by their target. There was an elegance to their work. It was almost poetic, their brand of vigilante justice. Amis’ style was bold, daring, and perfectly captured in the bright red signature Orestes left on his notes.

Orestes obviously thought he was _doing_ something for the greater good. His notes not only admonished his victims, but had optimism that burst through the pages that with trials pending for their targets, something would change for the better. It was ludicrous, of course. But Grantaire still wanted to catch Orestes and talk to him. He probably wouldn’t turn him in; he wasn’t an official cop anymore, just a consulting detective, so he didn’t feel obligated to.

Orestes might not actually succeed in trying to change the world, but he had stolen some extravagant shit from a couple of assholes, and that endeared him to Grantaire. But it was more than that. Grantaire wanted to talk to him, to see if he really believed in overturning the system by punishing wrongdoers himself, or if he even believed making the world a better place was even possible. Grantaire wanted to find Orestes and be convinced of something.

“It might not hurt to check out the crime scene,” Grantaire said nonchalantly. He could add his notes and any pictures he took to his case file he had made for Orestes.

“It’s not an official crime scene,” Joly said.

“Then how do we know something was stolen?”

“Our client,” Joly said. “His name is Babet. He heads a security company that was supposed to be protecting the house. If they don’t recover the stolen jewels, they have to pay their client for his losses, not to mention it could potentially ruin their company’s reputation.”

Grantaire was torn. On the one hand, he had heard of Babet. He served the rich and powerful, not only offering (apparently shitty) protection against thieves, but also ‘taking care’ of scandals, by sweeping them under the rug, offering hush money, or making the problems ‘disappear’.

Grantaire would love to see Babet’s security corporation crumble, but this was also his chance to get a firsthand look at the Amis’ handiwork. He knew there was no way in hell Scotland Yard would let him in on this- Javert had made sure he was kept out of any of the really interesting crimes. The only reason he was allowed to occasionally consult after being released from rehab was sometimes they got a little desperate. But not on a high profile case like the Amis; he wasn’t allowed to so much as glance at the case file.

“Okay. Let’s take a look.”

 

 

They took a cab to a gorgeous South Kensington townhouse. Joly had filled Grantaire in with what little he knew: the victim was 22. He was an orphan. His father had been involved in some major scandal about a decade ago, and committed suicide before he could be prosecuted. He had been bankrupt when he died, but his son received life insurance, as well as an inheritance from his grandparents. He was a student, and lived with two flatmates. The Amis had apparently taken his mother’s old jewels, valued at nearly twenty million pounds.

Grantaire frowned. The son didn’t sound like the Amis’ usual target. Something didn’t add up.

As soon as they stepped out of the cab, they were greeted by a tall, thin man. Grantaire instantly thought he looked like a skeleton. “Mr. Grantaire?”

“Just Grantaire,” he said. “And this is Joly. He’s my associate.”

He no idea how else to describe Joly. His father had decided that with Grantaire’s track record, he needed someone to keep an eye on him after he left rehab. So he hired Joly to live with his son. That had been a year and a half ago. During that time, the two men had become friends, so even when Joly’s contract ended, he decided to keep living with Grantaire. And now he tagged along at crime scenes. It was kind of weird, but it worked for them.

“I’m well aware who he is,” Babet said coldly. “Does he have to be at the crime scene? I’d like to keep this as quiet as we can.”

Ah. Babet had probably come across Joly’s blog where he wrote about some of their more memorable adventures.

“He is indispensable,” Grantaire said firmly.

Babet still didn’t look pleased, but he grunted, and led them into the house. He must be truly desperate. They walked down a pristine hallway, and found themselves in a living room. In the center, was a chair, with cut up rope around its feet- where the Amis had kept their victim, apparently. And seated on a sofa, looking like he was in a great deal of shock was a man who looked like an angel. Even with his bruised jaw, he had an otherworldly beauty to him, with golden curls, and clear blue eyes.

“Mr. Enjolras, this is Grantaire and Joly.” Babet said, adopting an obnoxious sycophantic voice. “Grantaire, Joly, Mr. Enjolras.”

“Just Enjolras,” the beautiful blonde man said. He nodded meekly at Grantaire. “Thank you for coming.”

Joly looked ready to fuss over him and tend to his bruises, but they were interrupted by another man coming in through a back door, bearing a glass of water that he handed to Enjolras.

“Grantaire?” said the man. “ _The_ Grantaire? I didn’t realize the case was that serious.”

“You didn’t think someone getting robbed and beaten was that serious?” Grantaire asked incredulously.

“If it was, why not involve the police?” the man retorted, readjusting his glasses.

“Combeferre, I’m sure Babet is just looking out for our best interest,” Enjolras said.

That wasn’t it at all. Babet wanted to avoid any publicity at all costs. If a peep of this got out, it would be highly embarrassing and potentially cost his company clients.

“We just want to protect our client’s privacy,” Babet said smoothly.

“I’m sure you know best,” Combeferre said. He glanced at Grantaire. For a second, he seemed nervous, but Grantaire must have imagined it; in seconds, Combeferre looked calm, and his expression neutral.

“Why don’t I take Grantaire and Joly to have a look around?” Babet said. We’ll continue with the questions when we finish.”

Enjolras nodded tiredly. Grantaire took the opportunity to give him a once over. Whoever punched him in the jaw was left-handed. His clothes were wrinkled, and his slender wrists bore rope burns.

It was a large townhouse. Family property, Grantaire was informed. He nodded, barely listening to the information about the house and security measures Babet was rattling off. He would rather make his own observations and come to his own conclusions. Joly was taking notes, so if he could look at those later. It was a perfectly ordinary house, if slightly upper class. There were some expensive paintings on the walls, and old, ornate furniture in the less inhabited spaces- remnants, probably, from when Enjolras’s parents lived there.

“They didn’t take any of those?” Grantaire nodded at the walls.

“They would be harder to resell on the black market," Babet said.

“How much are they insured for?” Joly asked.

“I don’t know,” Babet said. “My company only deals with what’s in the safes.”

“So your company handled the only things that got stolen?”

“Apparently.”

Grantaire tried very hard not to look amused by that. Judging by the way Babet’s scowl deepened, he hadn’t succeeded. Grantaire allowed himself one snort, then went back to examining the house. The obviously lived in spaces looked just how you would expect the home of three college boys to look like, with nothing unusual. He took time in each bedroom, glancing at the books, the clothes, the decorations or lack of. Babet tapped his foot impatiently, which only made Grantaire slow down. After thoroughly examining the curtains of the common room, he said magnanimously that he was ready to look at the safe where the jewels had been stolen from. It was at this point of the tour Enjolras had to be summoned to open it. He froze.

“Is there a problem?” Babet said.

“I can’t remember the code,” Enjolras said, looking embarrassed.

“They didn’t make you put it in?” Grantaire said.

“No, I told them I didn’t know, and then they hit me,” Enjolras said, his lower lip quivering. “I’m so sorry I can’t remember the code. I’m such an idiot.”

Grantaire wasn’t inclined to disagree, but Babet looked panicked his customer was starting to get upset again.

“It’s alright, Mr. Enjolras. There’s a master code I can put in.”

“Oh, could you really?” Enjolras gave a relieved smile, and it was really unfair how gorgeous he was. Babet didn’t even look annoyed that he had to put in the master code, he just looked pleased that he had a chance to come to the charming man’s rescue.

“Of course. One moment.”

Enjolras shuffled to the side as Babet pulled out his smart phone, and pulled up the data. He began punching in the stream of numbers into the safe.

“And that works on all your safes?” Enjolras asked, looking awed.

“It does. And we change it every twelve hours, for your security,” Babet said, clearly trying to sound impressive.

Grantaire felt a sudden urge to snort at the so called ‘security’. Joly shot him a warning look. Damn that Joly. He knew Grantaire too well. After he was satisfied poking around the safe, they returned to the living room, where Combeferre was waiting. Enjolras sank into the couch next to him.

“Let’s start where we left of,” Babet said. “Before you arrived, I was asking Enjolras if he had any maintenance done recently. Plumbers, carpenters…someone who could have scouted out the location.”

“No one,” Enjolras said.

“Well, let us know if you think of anything, Apollo,” Grantaire said

“Apollo?” Enjolras repeated.

“The Greek god?” Grantaire said.

“I don’t know much about Greek mythology.”

“Well, I guess the only Greek myth you really have to worry about is Orestes,” Grantaire said. Enjolras looked at him blankly. “Orestes. The leader of the Amis de l’ABC.”

“Who?”

“The Amis,” Grantaire said. He couldn’t believe he had to explain this. “They’ve been all over the news.”

“Oh. I don’t watch the news.”

Grantaire stared at Enjolras. Yes, he was pretty. Very, very pretty. But he was kind of a vapid idiot.

“They’re the ones that robbed you and held you hostage for 12 hours.”

“Oh _they_ did that? Why haven’t they been arrested yet?”

“Because no one knows who they are,” Grantaire seriously could not believe someone was this ignorant.

“Well someone should find out who the Amis de l’ABC are!”

God, his French was cringeworthy.

“We’re working on it,” Joly, said swooping in. It was times like these when Grantaire was grateful for him. Joly seemed to have infinite patience for dealing with obtuse people.

“What about your housekeeper?” Babet asked, consulting his notes.

“Mrs. Hucheloup?” Enjolras said, jerking his head up.

“Yes. I think as a precaution, you should replace her.”

Something dangerous flashed in Enjolras’s eyes. “Mrs. Hucheloup had nothing to do with this. I trust her completely.”

Babet gave a patronizing laugh. “Trust is a mistake only the young make. When you’ve lived a little longer, you’ll see what people are really like.”

Enjolras’s face was tight. “I’ve seen enough of the world,” he said tersely.

“Mr. Enjolras, I’m looking out for your best interests. Domestic staff are often involved in robberies. We’re going to look into her more, but I think you should fire her as a precaution.”

“You’re going to leave Mrs. Hucheloup out of your investigation,” Enjolras’s wispy voice was rapidly gaining a steely quality. “Don’t follow her, don’t contact her, don’t even mention her. In fact, just forget she exists.”

“Mr. Enjolras-”

“If I find out you’ve approached her, or done anything to upset her, you’ll answer to me.”

Gone was the fragile creature that was sitting on the couch when Grantaire arrived. Grantaire had thought him an angel when he first saw him. That could still be an apt description. But instead of a sweet being who watched benevolently over mankind, Enjolras now looked like the type of avenging angel who would burn the world for its sins. Grantaire was mesmerized.

“ _Honey_ ,” Combeferre said. Enjolras stopped his tirade, and turned to his…friend? Partner? Grantaire wasn’t sure what exactly they were to each other.

Whatever they were, they were evidently close enough that they could perfectly communicate without words. Enjolras glared at Combeferre, who returned his gaze with equal intensity, but much more calmness. Something passed between them, and just like that, the fiery man disappeared. When Enjolras looked back over at Babet and Grantaire, he flashed an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry,” he said to Babet, who looked suitably dazzled. “It’s been a long day.”

“Completely understandable,” Babet said. “I think we’re about done here, right, Mr. Grantaire?”

Enjolras turned to Grantaire, his wide eyes fatigued. Grantaire instantly felt guilty lingering. “I want to take another look around.”

“Babet has photographs of the house already,” Combeferre said crisply.

“I’d like to ask Enjolras a few more questions,” Grantaire said, frowning.

“He’s exhausted. He’s had a busy morning of being interrogated by Mr. Babet, and oh yes, _being robbed and beaten_.”

“Can I come back to ask some follow up questions?” Grantaire asked.

Combeferre grabbed a notepad. He scribbled down a phone number, and shoved the piece of paper at Grantaire. “Anything else?”

“No, I think we’re good.” Grantaire said. “Joly?”

Joly smiled politely at the three men. They heard Babet apologize repeatedly and profusely to Enjolras for what had happened as they left the townhouse.

As soon as the door shut, Grantaire turned to Joly. “He did it.”

“There are three ‘hes’ you could be referring to,” Joly said, reknotting his scarf.

“Whoever Orestes is, he’s brilliant, is familiar with Greek mythology, and speaks French well enough to appreciate French puns.” Grantaire couldn’t really judge Orestes for naming his organization ‘Amis de l’ABC’ when he had styled himself as ‘R’ to his friends.

“So you think it’s-”

“Combeferre,” Grantaire said with confidence. “In his bedroom, there were plenty of books written and French, as well as mythology books.”

“Please tell me you’re going on more than bad puns and Greek mythology.”

“He’s left-handed. Just then- when he wrote down the number, he used his left hand. The attacker is left handed.”

“So is 15% of the population,” Joly said calmly.

“But whoever Orestes is, he’s close to his victims. They’re inside jobs.”

“Okay, so he’s close to Enjolras…”

“He is clearly in charge of that relationship- did you see how controlling he was? I don’t know how long they’ve known each other, but it’s obviously been a while. Enjolras would never suspect his…whatever the hell Combeferre is too him. He’s too stupid and naïve. He’s your typical pretty, dumb blonde.”

“Pretty?” Joly repeated, smirking.

“Oh shut up, he’s not my type,” Grantaire said, shoving Joly with his shoulder. “Gorgeous, yes, but that hardly makes up for the utter lack of personality. Or IQ. Now if he suddenly grew a brain and a backbone, we’d be in serious trouble.”

“He got a little heated back here,” Joly said fairly.

Grantaire shrugged. “Okay, for ten seconds he showed some personality. Then it was back to handing the reigns over to Combeferre.”

“What do you want to do?”

That was the million dollar question. “We don’t have any proof Combeferre was involved. We’ll investigate some more until we can find something more substantial.”

At this moment, Babet stormed out. “Well?” he snapped at Grantaire.

“I have a few theories.”

“Care you share those theories?”

“Not until I have more proof,” Grantaire said, wishing he hadn’t given up smoking. He could use a cigarette right about now.

Babet yanked his gloves on. “Well get some. And fast. Unless we find those jewels, I owe that boy millions. _Millions_. And I want to find that damn Orestes and skin him alive.”

“The jewels are probably long gone,” Grantaire said. “There weren’t any really rare gems. There were just a lot of them. It would be easy to sell them on the black market.”

Babet scowled. “Just my luck. I’ll get my money somehow, even if I have to pull it out of the Amis.”

“I don’t think they’re _made_ out of money,” Joly said.

“You two are going to attend a function tomorrow evening,” Babet said, completely ignoring Joly. “Enjolras will be there, and so will Wilcox.”

“The first victim?”

“Two of them in the same place,” Babet said, his face hardening. “Whoever the Amis are, they’re close to their targets. They might be there. I want you to go and see if you can sniff them out.”

Grantaire gave a mock salute. “Aye aye captain.”

Babet looked at him like he were something unpleasant he had accidently stepped in. “Just don’t be late. My secretary will send you the details.”

 

 

 

The event, most unfortunately, was a black tie one. Grantaire spent the rest of the day complaining about having to wear a suit and tie the next night, and taking breaks to research Enjolras and Combeferre, as well as their third roommate. The crime scene had been pristine, so all he could really do was look more into the people involved. The Amis hadn’t left a single print or hair behind. It was practically a work of art, if breaking and entering could be considered art.

“Anything useful?” Joly asked.

“This definitely has something to with his father,” Grantaire said. “Both of the previous victims worked with Enjolras the elder at the time of his death. They were all on a board of directors together.”

Joly frowned, and glanced at the file. “It’s odd that the Amis would target his son.”

“They can’t punish _him_ ; he’s dead. Maybe they want to make Enjolras pay for the sins of his father.”

“Maybe,” Joly said thoughtfully.

Grantaire rubbed his face, frustrated. “No, it’s not quite their style. Maybe we’re dealing with a copycat?”

“What are you talking about?” Joly held up the copy of the note Babet had sent them. Grantaire had poured over the handwriting, and concluded that Orestes had in fact penned it himself. “‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree; both are rotten to the core.’ I mean, Orestes’ letter is basically condemning Enjolras because he was born rich. But the Amis don’t target the wealthy- they target the wealthy who are also corrupt. As far as we known, Enjolras hasn’t done anything.”

He sighed. Nothing was adding up. He felt like he _knew_ Orestes, and something about this particular theft didn’t feel right. Orestes was a man of conviction. He had a clear, rigid moral code. Everyone else might agree that it made sense Enjolras had been targeted for his family name, but it just felt _wrong_ to Grantaire.

He became so wrapped up in his own head that he almost didn’t register the sound of the doorbell ringing. Joly patted him on the shoulder, and went to answer it.

He returned a minute later, holding two cheap cardboard boxes with big red bows on them: one for him, and one for Grantaire. They both stared at each other. They hadn’t been expecting any deliveries.

“Bombs?” Joly ventured. “Did you piss off another criminal organization?”

Grantaire gently shook it.

“Don’t _shake_ it!” Joly hissed.

“It’s not a bomb,” Grantaire rolled his eyes. Without any further ado, he ripped off the flimsy lid and was surprised to see a neatly folded suit inside. “Not what I was expecting.”

“Look,” Joly pointed to the small sheet of paper folded at the bottom of Grantaire’s box. Grantaire gingerly unfolded it, although he had a pretty good idea already of who it was from. On the paper, in neat (now familiar) script was:

 

See you soon.

            -Orestes

 

He folded the paper carefully. “Well, I suppose we don’t have go rent tuxes now,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Shouldn’t we be slightly concerned that a criminal mastermind knows where we live?”

“A lot of criminal masterminds know where we live,” Grantaire said.

“Great. Thanks. That made me feel loads better.”

Grantaire tapped the paper against his cheek thoughtfully. “This helps with the Combeferre is Orestes theory. Babet would have told him that we’re going to be there tomorrow, so he knew to buy suits.”

“Okay, but _why_ would he send us suits?”

“I have half a dozen theories,” Grantaire said. Why couldn’t all criminals be this entertaining?

“We can’t wear them, right?”

“Are you going to track down two suits for us by tomorrow evening?”

Joly’s horrified face at the prospect was answer enough.

“Anyway,” Grantaire continued. “We have bigger things to worry about than the Amis apparently knowing our sizes.”

“Such as?”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire said. “He clearly trusts Combeferre, and that’s going to bite him in the ass, because he’s naïve verging on idiotic. I just want to make sure he’s okay.”

“Because he’s hot?”

“ _No_ , because I feel bad for him. He needs someone to look after him.” Grantaire wasn’t sure why his protective instincts flared up around Enjolras. He was a sheltered rich boy- not someone Grantaire would usually rush to defend, but something about Enjolras made Grantaire want to prevent anyone from hurting him.

 

 

This was probably a bad idea, Grantaire thought, but he had already rang the doorbell, and there was no turning back. He had spent the rest of the previous day, and the entire morning scouring for some solid clues, but found nothing. He wanted to go back to the house to check it out again, and he also wanted to warn Enjolras.

 After ringing again, he was greeted a minute later by Combeferre’s startled face.

“What are you doing here?”

“Follow up interview.”

“You didn’t call.”

“I was in the neighborhood,” Grantaire said, shouldering past him. “Thought I’d drop in.”

“Who’s there?” came Enjolras’s voice from down the hall. Grantaire followed it.

“Hello again,” he said.

“Mr. Grantaire.”

He winced. “Just Grantaire. Do you have a minute?”

Enjolras gestured to the couch opposite him. Grantaire sat down.

“Combeferre, would you mind getting us some tea?” Enjolras asked sweetly.

Combeferre looked like he very much _did_ mind, but he obliged (after shooting them a bone-chilling look one more time).

“How long have you known him?” Grantaire nodded at Combeferre’s retreating figure.

“A long time.”

“How did you meet?”

“We went to school together.”

“And he’s your-” The one thing he couldn’t figure out was what Combeferre and Enjolras were to each other.

“He’s Combeferre.”

“Is he your friend? Boyfriend?”

“He’s Combeferre,” Enjolras said as if that explained everything. Maybe it did.

But Grantaire still felt frustratingly in the dark. He decided to abandon subtly, since it would apparently get him nowhere with Enjolras.

“And you trust him?”

“Of course.”

Grantaire checked over his shoulder to make sure Combeferre hadn’t come back yet before leaning forward.

“Enjolras,” He said gently. “I think there is a very real possibility Combeferre was involved in all this.”

The reaction he got was not the one he was expecting: Enjolras burst into laughter. Grantaire frowned.

“Enjolras. _Enjolras_ ,” he repeated when the other man continued to laugh. “I have proof.”

That sobered him up right away.

“You have proof?” he repeated, looking more serious than Grantaire had ever seen him.

“Well…not exactly. But these jobs usually have someone from the inside help. Not to mention, whoever hit you was left-handed, same as Combeferre. Add to that the fact that his alibi is pretty flimsy, and I think it’s worth looking into.”

“Mr. Grantaire,” Enjolras said. “I trust Combeferre with my life.”

Of course he did, the naïve idiot.

“Enjolras, I’m trying to _help_ here,” Grantaire was trying very hard to not get frustrated. Why was caring about things so fucking difficult? This was why he usually didn’t bother- it never mattered.

“Hey, Enjolras?”

Grantaire looked up at the man who had just poked his head in. Courfeyrac, he thought silently. The last roommate and likely accomplice, who had also gone to boarding school with Combeferre and Enjolras. He hadn’t been able to glean much more information in his preliminary research; just that Courfeyrac also came from a well-to-do family, and was also currently a student. Grantaire _had_ wasted a few hours stalking Courfeyrac’s sometimes entertaining, sometimes brilliant, sometimes downright terrifying Twitter feed, but it provided no insight into the case. “I was going to ask what kind of tea you guys wanted,” Courfeyrac said.

“We can help,” Grantaire said, springing to his feet. He never got a second chance to poke around the house.

“Oh, that’s not necessary.”

“I insist,” Grantaire said, pushing past Courfeyrac. He found himself in what appeared to be a dining room. His eyes fell on a set of ornate set of glass goblets resting on the side table that he didn’t remember seeing the day before. They were glass, but closer observation told Grantaire they were diamond encrusted. What the fuck? Grantaire usually drank straight from a bottle or carton. If he was feeling fancy, he might pour it in a plastic cup. Diamond encrusted glass goblets? How could anyone be that frivolously extravagant?

“I was going to bring your drink to you,” Combeferre entered, looking furious.

 “Pretty, aren’t they?” Enjolras said. He had come in from behind Grantaire, and saw where he was staring. He took a step forward, smiling.

“Courfeyrac, I thought I asked you to put those away,” Combeferre said, his voice sounding stilted.

Courfeyrac looked confused. “But Enjolras said…”

He trailed off, and Combeferre looked ready to explode.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre said, his voice tight. “We don’t use these glasses.”

For some reason, this made Enjolras smile widely.

 “It’s alright. They’re already out.” He walked over, picked up the closest one, and set it in Grantaire’s hand. “Take a good look.”

Grantaire watched Enjolras’s delicate fingers trace over the patterns. Combeferre coughed loudly behind them.

“Would you like something to drink other than tea?” Enjolras said, ignoring Combeferre completely. “We never use these glasses.”

Grantaire wished he could ignore Combeferre as easily as Enjolras could. He might as well accept that drink. Enjolras probably had fancy rich people drinks, and he might be able to glean some new information about the case over a glass of wine. But Combeferre looked like he wanted to strangle someone, so Grantaire thought it would be best to decline.

“No thanks. I should get back to work.”

 

“Work” was mostly Grantaire and Joly putting on their suits and trying to look like responsible adults who would go to –

“What is this event anyway?” Grantaire grunted as he fumbled with his tie.

“I can see why people rave about your legendary powers of observation,” Joly said, rolling his eyes. He swatted Grantaire’s hand away and took over. “It’s a charity ball. For the environment.”

“What about the environment?”

“The _paper_ invitation that we were forwarded was not too specific,” Joly grimaced. “The host is some kind of oil executive.”

“Of course he is,” Grantaire said. On his list of ways he would like to spend the evening, attending an event thrown by a bunch of phony hypocrites came nowhere near the top. “Shall we get this over with?”

 

 

 

The charity ball was just as horrific as Grantaire had anticipated. It was full of snobby people dressed pretending to care about the environment. The menu was pretentious, and the food itself only subpar. Grantaire craved a drink, but he had promised Joly to make a serious effort to quit, and if he started drinking tonight he wouldn’t be able to stop. To top it all off, there was a man around their age who was trying to steal Joly from him.

 “I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said, with a good natured smile. “But would you care to dance?”

“He’s with me,” Grantaire selfishly blurt out. There was no way in hell Joly was going to leave him.

“We’re just friends,” Joly assured his suitor.

“But we’re here for…” Grantaire couldn’t exactly say ‘work’, because that could lead to some awkward questions. “…we’re here to look for someone. A friend of a friend.”

“And what better way to do that than for us to meet new people who might be able to point us in the right direction,” Joly slipped his hand into his suitor’s.

“I’m Bossuet.”

“Joly.”

“Fine, go,” Grantaire said, because he was a good person, who would never dream of abandoning a friend in such a situation.

“Thank you,” Joly mouthed, as he hurried off with Bossuet.

No sooner had he left than the host for the evening cornered Grantaire.

“Mr. Grantaire. I’m a huge fan.” He shook Grantaire’s hand so enthusiastically, he was afraid his arm might be ripped off.

“Well, you shouldn’t be.”

“And you’re modest too! Let me show you something,” the host said. “My new vault. State of the art, just got it in a month ago. Thought it might interest you, with your line of work.

“I’m semi-retired.”

“My friend Babet gave me a good deal,” the man continued, not appearing to have heard Grantaire. “He’s a _genius_ at home security. You two would probably have a lot of things to talk about.”

“I’m sure we would,” Grantaire grumbled.

The host practically dragged Grantaire to the door that stood in front of his vault and bragged about all the special features. Grantaire nodded along politely, but scanned the crowd. He saw Joly and Bossuet standing in a corner, chatting to each other, both wearing smiles. He also saw a familiar golden head of curls. Enjolras had arrived, wearing a formal red jacket, and flanked by Combeferre and Courfeyrac. The trio moved around the floor with ease, smiling, and greeting other guests.

“I _said_ guess what’s inthe vault.”

“No idea,” Grantaire said, snapping his attention back to the babbling man in front of him.

He looked delighted. “The famous detective has no idea! Come on- _guess_.”

Grantaire could probably have an idea, if he cared to. He could probably remember his host’s name, if he cared to, which he didn’t. Brain power was a finite resource; if you wasted it on things you didn’t care about, you would have difficulty thinking when it mattered. Which is why Grantaire renamed his host Babbles in his head so he didn’t have to bother remembering his name, and said “No, really, I haven’t the faintest.”

“My wife just bought the most beautiful glasses. Modelled after the ones the Russian royal family used. We are actually distant relatives of them, you know.”

“Mmmm,” Grantaire said, trying to look vaguely interested. Joly would suffer later for abandoning him.

“We’re going to use the glasses for another occasion. I don’t trust all these people not to break them.”

“How exciting.”

“We’ll have a dinner party. You’ll have to come, of course.”

This was one of the worst evenings of Grantaire’s life. Definitely in the top ten, edging out the time had had been locked in the boot of a suspect’s car and pushed into the Thames.

“I had them specially ordered by a designer in Paris-”

“Excuse me, but could I talk to Grantaire for a minute?”

Grantaire looked up at his unexpected savior- Combeferre.

“Sorry, he’s old friend. I have to go,” Grantaire said.

“So we’re old friends now?” Combeferre said, leading Grantaire away, looking amused.

“We’ve known each other for almost two whole days. I don’t usually retain friends for even one.”

“I didn’t realize we’re friends.”

“How could you? After all we’ve been through. This terrible evening, for example.”

Combeferre’s lip twitched at this, so Grantaire counted that as a victory.

“The guests are…interesting,” Combeferre said. Grantaire could hear the disapproval leaking through his voice, but only because he had been looking for it. It wasn’t what he was expecting. Combeferre was very calm about it all. He had expected talking to Orestes to be more like trying to fight a storm.

Combeferre didn’t even seem especially angry at the excessive waste and hypocrisy before him. Annoyed, yes. But not blazing with righteous fury like Grantaire had expected. It was almost…disappointing. Combeferre should have been plotting their downfall, but instead he was watching someone on the dance floor with an almost fond look.

Grantaire followed his gaze, and what he saw made his heart almost leap out of his chest. Gliding across the floor, looking dazzling was Enjolras. He was in the arms of Courfeyrac, dancing in the center of the room, the very picture of grace. His face was fierce, passionate, and focused. While Enjolras was painfully beautiful, Courfeyrac moved with undeniable sex appeal.

Together, they were utterly mesmerizing. Just about everyone was watching them.

Until a loud blaring alarm went off.

The guests all began to panic, thinking that perhaps they were under attack. Grantaire’s ears perked up when he heard commotion from behind him. Babbles stood in front of an open door to large vault and was gesturing wildly for him to come, so Grantaire went over to him. Maybe something actually dire had happened.

“The glasses are missing!”

“They’re just glasses,” Grantaire said, bored already.

“They’re _diamond_ encrusted glasses,” Babbles snapped. “Show him.”

His assistant (who had materialized out of nowhere) fumbled with his iPad touch, and pulled up a photo album, documenting the various precious objects stored in the vault. He frantically swiped through, before stopping.

“Here.”

Grantaire took the device, and glanced at the photos, though he didn’t especially care. Then he did a double take. Pictured were the glass goblets that had been sitting in Enjolras’s dining room. The glass goblets that Enjolras had picked up, put in his hand and told him to take a good look at. Son of a–

Grantaire looked around the room wildly. It didn’t take long for him to spot the golden curls and red jacket. Enjolras was chatting with Combeferre (who looked stern) and Courfeyrac (who looked amused). He seemed to sense someone was watching him, because he turned away. When he saw Grantaire, he raised his eyebrows and fucking _smirked._

Then Combeferre had an arm around his shoulder, and was hurrying him out. Grantaire was left standing there holding the iPad like an idiot. He wasn’t sure exactly what had just happened, but he was absolutely certain that he was completely fucked.

 

 

 

“If you die, I’m not coming to your funeral.”

“Sorry,” Joly choked out, not looking remotely apologetic. “But you have to admit, it’s funny.”

They were seated across from each other on their kitchen table (they hardly ever bothered with the chairs any more), each holding a cup of chamomile tea. Grantaire would have preferred something a little stronger, but Joly was an excellent sober companion, damn him. As soon as they could leave the party, Grantaire had dragged Joly back to the flat, and filled him in on the afternoon chat, on the cups, and on _Enjolras_. Pieces that didn’t quite fit before suddenly clicked, and he was left with the unpleasant conclusion that Enjolras was Orestes.

When Joly first heard this, he had stared at him for a minute, then, being the great friend he was, had burst out into hysterical laughter. Five minutes later, and he was still wiping tears from his eyes.

“ _How_ is this funny?”

“What do you mean, how is it funny? You spent the entire day either worrying about Enjolras or complaining about what an idiot he is, and it turns out he was playing you the entire time.” Joly looked delighted that someone had pulled one over on Grantaire.

“Well I figured it out, didn’t I?”

“Only because he wanted you to.”

Grantaire frowned. Why _did_ Enjolras let him find out? He had proven himself a consummate liar with a brilliant, tactical mind. What was the point of risking it all?

Joly interrupted his thoughts. “Is he your arch nemesis?”

“Real people don’t have arch nemeses.”

“Boring,” Joly said. “Alright, boss. What’s the game plan?”

Grantaire swung his legs over the table edge and landed softly on the floor. “I think I need to have a talk with a certain thief.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were a lot of things that influenced this story. Les Mis, obviously. I also like heist movies a lot, so things like the Sting or Ocean's 11 were on my mind (those will come into play later). I liked the idea of Grantaire being a Sherlock Holmes-like detective, because I saw similarities (they're smart, know a lot of random facts, struggle with addiction, and I could see Grantaire getting restless like Holmes did). The sober companion bit was influenced by Elementary. Count of Monte Cristo also slightly influenced this, as did the original myth of Orestes). A lot of that comes into play later, but I wanted to acknowledge it now. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading. Please feel free to say hi on [tumblr](http://babesatthebarricade.tumblr.com/)


	2. A Proposal

Grantaire banged on Enjolras’s door. His brain vaguely registered that it was two in the morning, but he didn’t really care. He also didn’t care that he was wearing pajama bottoms, a ratty t-shirt, slippers, and a half-open bathrobe.

He didn’t have to wait long for the door top open.

“Mr. Grantaire?” Enjolras made a big show of yawning, like he had just been woken up, even though he wouldn’t have been able to answer the door that quickly if he had been sleeping. Not to mention he was still wearing his suit pants and white button down from earlier, even though the jacket and tie had been removed.

“How did you do it?” Grantaire asked.

“Do what?”

“The glasses? Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, or try to play dumb with me. We’re past that point.”

For a second, Enjolras didn’t move. He surveyed Grantaire with a suddenly cool gaze. Then he moved aside, allowing him access into the house. “Thank God for that.”

Grantaire shut the door behind him, and followed Enjolras into the living room. Enjolras sat down on the couch and gestured for Grantaire to do sit as well. He lowered himself carefully in the chair opposite him, suspecting some kind of trap. Enjolras paid him no mind, busying himself with pouring two cups of coffee. He added a splash of hazelnut creamer to one, and a spoon of sugar before sliding it across the table to Grantaire.

 “I thought we might need the caffeine,” Enjolras said, flashing one of his charming smiles.

Grantaire wasn’t naïve enough to think Enjolras was trying to be nice. This was intimidation disguised as manners. The coffee was still piping hot, so Enjolras had not only anticipated his arrival, but anticipated the exact time with unnerving accuracy. He also knew exactly how Grantaire preferred his coffee. It was a subtle but unsettling reminder that Enjolras was already two steps ahead of him. Grantaire, rather than be intimidated, felt excited. It had been a long time since he’d dealt with any interesting criminals.

“Thank you,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras inclined his head. He took a sip of his own coffee, watching Grantaire, but not too intently. Grantaire repressed a frustrated groan. He had taken a big step in coming there, but it appeared Enjolras also intended to make him speak first.

“You’re very calm considering I could turn you in for several robberies.”

“I thought Combeferre was behind them,” Enjolras said, not looking at all bothered. He looked…amused. That smug bastard.

“Which is why I’m assuming he happened to come over and talk to me right as the goblets were discovered missing,” Grantaire said. “You warned him I suspected him.”

“Was he talking to you then?” Enjolras widened his eyes in mock surprise. “I wouldn’t have any idea about that. I was dancing with Courfeyrac when the alarms went off. Someone must have seen us.”

He knew perfectly well that practically everyone in the room had been watching them. “Yes, the fact that the three of you have solid alibies would deter me, except I saw the goblets in your dining room well before the robbery.” That also bothered Grantaire. “Why risk it?”

“Because he’s a moron.” Combeferre emerged from one of the darkened hallways.

“Or has a great sense of humor,” Courfeyrac trotted out after him with bed-tousled hair. “You didn’t tell us we had a guest. Rude.”

They seated themselves on either side of Enjolras. He must have known they would wake up and join them, Grantaire thought. He would never admit it, but having the three men stare him down from the other side of the table was slightly intimidating. Which, he assumed, was why Enjolras had chosen to sit on the couch in the first place.

Combeferre (who somehow managed to look intimidating in his pajamas) pushed up his glasses. “Apologies for not coming down as soon as I heard the door open. Someone had difficulty getting out of bed.”

Courfeyrac groped around blindly before finding the coffee pot and helping himself. He opened his eye blearily and glared at Grantaire. “It’s nice to see you again. But next time, come at normal human hours.”

Grantaire would not be deterred so easily. He turned to Enjolras insistently. “Why the act? Why go through the trouble of putting on a show?”

Enjolras set down his cup and saucer with a gently _chink_. “You’re assuming it was for your benefit.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“Obviously not,” Enjolras said crisply. He was surveying Grantaire with an almost disappointed look, as if he had expected more.

That was of course absurd, because it was two in the morning, and Grantaire was playing catch up. It wasn’t fair of Enjolras to expect him to have figured everything out. True, Grantaire had a reputation as a brilliant former detective, but he tarnished that legacy with a well-publicized melt-down that he felt Enjolras should also take into account before judging him too harshly.

And despite knowing Enjolras was being unfair with his expectations, Grantaire still craved his approval. He wanted to impress him.

“It was for Babet,” he said slowly.

“It was killing two birds with one stone,” Combeferre said quietly.

“Am I a bird in this scenario?”

“Babet was the main bird,” Courfeyrac said.

“He should have been the _only_ target,” Combeferre sounded tense, but fortunately for Grantaire, that seemed more aimed at Enjolras than himself.

The gears in Grantaire’s brain started turning. They were rusty- he hadn’t had to think, really, really think for a while. “You wanted to damage Babet’s reputation…” he said.

Enjolras scrunched his nose.

“No. Because….you knew Babet would try to keep the robbery quiet.” It was too early for this, and having a trio of geniuses staring him down and judging him was not helping his concentration. “The insurance money. He has to pay you millions. Then you sell the stolen jewels, pocket the profits, and at least double your earnings.”

Now it was Grantaire’s turn to feel oddly disappointed. It was brilliant. Of course it was brilliant, all their plans were brilliant. But he hadn’t expected them to be so mercenary.

The three men all looked rather pleased with themselves.

“The best part,” Courfeyrac said, practically rocking back and forth in his seat with glee. “Is what we’re going to _do_ with the money.”

“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre said in a warning tone.

“Oh please,” he scoffed. “Grantaire already knows more than enough, and he’ll appreciate it. You know how Babet is a huge homophobic douchewad?”

Grantaire nodded. The question had been rhetorical. Babet had made several inflammatory remarks about one of his top competitors and his sexuality that had attracted attention from the newspapers, and the ire of the LGBTQ community.

“Half of the money goes to his competitor’s philanthropic organization. The other half to LGBTQ right’s groups,” Courfeyrac said, looking smug.

“You’re…you’re not keeping the money?” Grantaire was surprised. He chose to believe the worst in people because then he couldn’t be disappointed, and usually had the satisfaction of being proved right. He wasn’t used to people proving him wrong.

“Why would we keep it?” Enjolras said.

“Because you know…you’re people. People are greedy. And for all your rants about changing the world for the better, you never mentioned donating money in your notes.”

“It could get the people we’re trying to help into trouble if anyone found out they received stolen money.”

“Okay, so you steal from the rich and rob from the poor. Very Robin Hood of you,” Grantaire said. “And you targeted yourself to double the profits…”

He rubbed his forehead. He was still missing something. Targeting themselves was still an enormous gamble. Unless the payoff was greater than the risk.

“This is about what happened to your father,” Grantaire said slowly.

“Of course it isn’t,” Enjolras said crisply. “My father was an active man before he died. A lot of his former business contacts happen to be our targets, which isn’t much of a coincidence, considering how narrow their social circle is.”

“No, this is about your father,” Grantaire said. His gut told him he was right about this, and he wasn’t about to back down. “You’re not done targeting people yet. It’s all going to relate back to the Corinth Corporation scandal. You’re going to keep targeting anyone else who was connected, and knew if you continued, you would be a suspect. So you decided to nip that in the bud and make yourself one of the early victims.”

Enjolras’s face was like marble- hard and immovable. Combeferre also was very still, but Courfeyrac gave a subtle, uncomfortable shift that let Grantaire know he was close to home. So he pressed his advantage.

“So the big question is why are you bothering to go after these guys? There’s plenty of rich, corrupt people. What exactly happened back then?”

“You can read the newspapers,” Enjolras said coolly.

“I’m not asking what the newspapers said,” Grantaire said. “I want to hear what you say happened.”

“If you want to discuss the past, then let’s talk about the Butcher of Brixton. I’ve read the papers, but I want to hear what _you_ say happened.”

Grantaire felt his stomach clench. No, he did not want to discuss his last case with Scotland Yard. The Butcher of Brixton officially had 23 victims, but sometimes, Joly would say he had 24. A little piece of Grantaire had died during his investigation. Grantaire would always snap at Joly and say Joly had only met him after his stint in rehab, and he didn’t know what he was talking about. But deep down, he knew he was right. He could divide his life into pre- Butcher of Brixton and post. He often thought the best parts of him had died during that last official case.

He snapped back to the present when he realized Enjolras was watching him carefully. Clinically. What had he been hoping to see, Grantaire wondered.

“Perhaps some other time.”

Enjolras nodded at this response, as if he actually intended to have this conversation someday.

“For now, let’s talk about your latest heist.”

“I thought we already did that,” Enjolras said, looking slightly bored.

“Humor me,” Grantaire said. “So you staged a robbery so you were a victim. You had Combeferre punch you so you had a bruise.”

“I assume it was my left-handedness that gave it away?” Combeferre said.

Grantaire nodded.

“We would have had Courfeyrac do it, but he wasn’t able to,” Enjolras said, severely, as if it were a character flaw on Courfeyrac’s part that he couldn’t make himself punch one of his best friends in the face.

“No one else thought anything of it,” Combeferre assured Enjolras.

“You know, you lied about Combeferre,” Grantaire said. Well, if he was going to nitpick, Enjolras had lied about a lot of things. “You said he wasn’t involved.”

“I said I trusted him with my life,” Enjolras corrected him. “Completely different things, I assure you.”

Grantaire couldn’t argue with that. He mentally walked through what happened after he met Enjolras.

“You pretended to forget your pin so Babet had to put in the master code. Then we came back here, and you acted like you had never heard of Orestes or the Amis. Let me guess, you actually speak fluent French?”

“Bien sûr.”

His pronunciation was perfect. Grantaire was actually impressed at how well Enjolras had managed to convince him he was a total idiot.

“Next you waited until we left to actually rob the place. It wasn’t just the three of you, was it? You would have had to rewire the security system so they wouldn’t know anything was gone until the party. How _did_ you know he would want to show off the goblets at the party? He could have done it before hand.”

“He was out of town at the time,” Courfeyrac shrugged. “No one else is allowed in the vault anyway. Plus there’s a video feed-”

“So you just had to loop it, and no one would be the wiser.”

Combeferre shot Courfeyrac a look.

“What? He’s already figured most of it out anyway,” Courfeyrac said.

“What exactly do they teach you in law school?” Combeferre muttered to himself.

“Grantaire won’t turn us in,” Courfeyrac said confidently. Combeferre looked doubtful, but Enjolras looked like he didn’t think Grantaire would rat them out either.

“Did you do the video feed yourself, or do you have accomplices? There must be more than three of you. Someone would have to hack into the system, someone would have to keep guard, I’m assuming there was a getaway car, and it would take at least two people to carry the goblet themselves, but you probably used three. How many people are in the Amis?”

“Enough,” Enjolras said.

“How many is enough?”

“As many as we need.”

“Fine. Don’t tell me.” He’d figure it out eventually. And anyway, the robbery itself wasn’t the interesting part. It seemed fairly standard. Simple. It was the before and after part was what interested him.

“So at the event itself, all you three had to do was establish alibies. Enjolras and Courfeyrac were dancing, and Combeferre was talking to me.”

He paused.

“But what happens when they realize someone tampered with the security tape? They’ll know they were stolen the day before.”

“They won’t,” Enjolras said confidently.  “Is that all?”

“One more question: why did you want me to find out?”

They trio exchanged looks. They appeared to be at an impasse until Courfeyrac stood up. “Come on, Combeferre. Let’s get some more coffee.”

Combeferre looked at Grantaire and Enjolras, as if weighing the pros and cons of leaving them alone. Grantaire wasn’t sure who he was more concerned about. Eventually, he nodded, and stood up slowly, taking the used coffee mugs with him.

At last, they were alone.

 “So why involve me?” 

“The one that got away.”

Grantaire stared at Enjolras as he reached into a nearby drawer and handed Grantaire a file. He opened it curiously.

“Bamatabois,” he said, recognizing the man’s face before he even had to read the name.

“He was one of your first cases at Scotland Yard, right? Arrested for having sex with multiple underaged girls.”

“Someone botched up the evidence and we weren’t able to bring him to trial,” Grantaire said. He has always suspected the well-connected Bamatabois had convinced someone to intentionally mess with the evidence, but he had never been able to prove it.

“We might have a similar interest in bringing Mr. Bamatabois to justice,” Enjolras said.

“Do tell.”

“He has made a fortune running a successful blackmail ring. He steals private documents. Stalks and intimidates innocent people. And he has secretly taped sexual encounters with young women and threatened to release them.”

“And what do you intend to do about it?”

“Stop him.”

“You want me to help.”

Enjolras slid another file to Grantaire. “These are Bamatabois’s accomplices. Two of them are in the police force. We have an idea of how to get Bamatabois arrested. The problem is getting the charges to stick when we know he has people who will immediately tamper with the evidence. And likely release the blackmail material anyway to punish his victims.”

“And I fit into your scheme because?”

“You used to work with the police. Frequently. We think you might have a unique insight that can make sure things go smoothly.”

“And if I decide to turn on you, I’m a former druggie, current alcoholic who is doubtlessly the butt of all of Scotland Yard’s jokes, and no one would believe me,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras frowned. “You shouldn’t talk about yourself that way. You’re a highly intelligent and capable man. I’m sure someone would believe you.”

Grantaire decided to ignore the flutter in his chest. “So you just…trust me?”

“Of course not. If you decide to turn on us, we’ll say you were in on it the whole time. We have photographic evidence of you entering our home at late hours of the night to make plans with us. We also have a sample of your hair we will plant among any evidence the police find against us. And Combeferre is doubtlessly collecting a saliva sample from your coffee mug as we speak, its use to be determined.”

Grantaire blinked. He was impressed, and if he was being completely honest, a little turned on by how ruthless and efficient Enjolras was.

“Do the rest of your merry little band of thieves know you’re letting me in?”

“They do. And they’re fine with it.”

“All of them?” Grantaire wasn’t forgetting Combeferre’s initial hostility.

Here Enjolras’s impassive mask slipped and he grimaced slightly. “Combeferre didn’t _exactly_ agree on the timing.”

“It doesn’t make much sense,” Grantaire agreed. “I wouldn’t involve anyone who wasn’t an Amis until the very end. The more people who know, the more liabilities you have. But I think you’re ramping up to something bigger. Bamabatois isn’t your grand finale, so you’re risking it all by bringing me in, so you can save the best for last, whatever that is. It’s all part of your grand vision, right?”

Enjolras’s lips tightened, but he said nothing.

“You don’t have to confirm what I already know,” Grantaire said. “Alright, fine. Let’s say I’m in. Do I get to meet the rest of your friends?”

“Absoltuely not.”

“I don’t think it’s fair I’d be offering you my considerable knowledge and get nothing in return.”

“You get closure. You get the satisfaction of knowing you put Bamabatois in jail after all these years. You get peace of mind. Isn’t that enough?”

No.

“Yes.”

“Good. We’ll be in touch shortly.”

“That’s it?”

“For now. We have some arrangements to make before we can convey anything further to you. And you should get some sleep.”

“Okay. Talk to you soon, I guess.”

Enjolras nodded. Grantaire wondered if he would be getting any sleep that night. Probably not.

“Sweet dreams, Enjolras,” he said anyway, mostly to see Enjolras’s reaction. He wondered what Enjolras dreamt about.

When he got home, Grantaire ignored Enjolras’s order to sleep. Okay, it had been a suggestion, but suggestions from Enjolras somehow seemed more like orders. Instead he flicked on the TV.  His mind was too wired for him to get asleep.

The morning news shows were just starting, and he was amused to see the Amis’ latest robbery covered.

“They stole my diamond encrusted goblets. I will give the Amis 24 hours to return my goblets to me, or else I will hire the best private detectives to hunt them down!” Babbles shouted angrily to the cameras.

Grantaire grinned, and he soon drifted off to sleep.

 

 

When he woke up, it was to the news that Amis had in fact returned Babbles’ goblets. They had just kept the diamonds. Grantaire laughed out loud at that. He imagined Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac watching the same segment together, smug, probably completely pleased with themselves, and he suddenly had no qualms about working with them.

“You’re in a good mood,” Joly said, poking his head in. “And voluntarily awake before noon. I take it your chat went well?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire shifted. He wasn’t sure how much he was allowed to tell Joly but screw it. “So how do you feel about stealing stuff with a criminal organization?”

Joly tilted his head as he considered it. “Sounds fun. I’m in.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait between updates. February and March were a lot busier than anticipated, so thank you for your patience. I'll try to be better about updates. This chapter was a little shorter than I wanted, but it was upload a shorter chapter now, or upload a longer one in another few weeks. 
> 
> Feel free to nudge me for updates or say hi on [tumblr](http://babesatthebarricade.tumblr.com/)


	3. The Job

Something was ringing. Grantaire looked expectantly at Joly, who was lounging on the couch, watching a TV doctor give advice and tsking. 

"Don't look at me," Joly held up his phone. "Mine's off."

Grantaire was confused. He had thrown his own phone out the window about a week ago when the alarm did its job and woke him up. He hadn't seen it since. After two more rings, the mystery phone stopped. Grantaire and Joly jumped to their feet. 

"It came from that way," Grantaire led the way to the kitchen. Sitting on the table, with a bright red bow was a cell phone. Grantaire rolled his eyes. "Always so dramatic."

The phone started to ring again, but this time, it played the Pink Panther theme. Grantaire couldn't repress his grin as he saw "Orestes" in the caller ID. 

"Nice ringtone."

There was a pause.

"What?"

Grantaire's smile widened. "Did Courfeyrac set up the phone?"

Now Enjolras sounded suspicious. "He and another...associate. Why? What did he do?"

"Nothing. There was just professional sounding ringing."

Enjolras sighed. Grantaire wondered how much he was regretting bringing Grantaire on board. "Someone will pick you up in an hour."

"And they are taking me...where?"

Silence. 

"Are they taking you to a safe house?" Joly asked eagerly. He didn't seem nearly concerned enough that a shady vigilante organization was coming to get his friend and take him to a secret location to do who knows what. 

"Was that Joly?" Enjolras sounded amused.

"...no?" Grantaire said. Despite telling Joly everything he knew, he wasn't sure how much the _Amis_ wanted Joly to know, or what they would do to him if they thought he knew too much. 

"He can come too if he wants," Enjolras said. Then he hung up.

 

 

Courfeyrac pulled up to their house an hour later in a sleek black car. 

"Gentlemen," he said, opening the door. Joly slid in eagerly. 

"Can I call shotgun?" Grantaire asked. 

"It's occupied," came a voice from the front. A slightly familiar voice...

Grantaire hurried in after Joly so he could get a look. It was Bossuet.

"You?" Grantaire and Joly cried in unison. 

Courfeyrac shut the door. 

"Me," Bossuet said, grinning. 

"I admit I didn't see that one coming," Grantaire said as Courfeyrac started up the car. 

"We all buckled in?"

"Really? With all the shit you guys pull, you're concerned about seatbelts?"

"With all the shit we pull, it'd be really embarrassing if we died because we didn't buckle up," Courfeyrac said cheerfully. 

"It'll be equally embarrassing if Enjolras kills you for personalizing my phone."

Courfeyrac looked positively gleeful. "Does he know what song I used?"

"No."

"Good. And he won't kill me. He loves me too much," Courfeyrac said. "Combeferre on the other hand...he's the only one who didn't get a song. He actually would kill me."

Grantaire looked down at his phone and saw the first call came from "Odysseus". "What about Bossuet? Is he programmed on the phone?" Grantaire said scathingly. He was more than a little irritated that the Amis had sent someone to flirt with Joly. If they wanted to play mind games with him, fine, but he didn't want them messing with Joly. 

"I'm not on your phone. But," he turned to Joly. "If _you_ give me your phone, I'll put my number in it."

Joly looked enchanted and started to reach in his pocket for his phone, but Grantaire smacked his hand away. "Don't give him your phone," he hissed. 

Joly smacked back. "I do what I want."

This quickly devolved into a slapping contest, with both Grantaire and Joly flailing their hands at each other and wincing a lot. 

"Aren't you trained in actual fighting? Like, with a black belt?" Courfeyrac drawled from the front seat. 

Grantaire settled for one last slap on Joly's arm. "Maybe. Shut up.'

Bossuet's phone rang. "It's Calliope," he said. 

Courfeyrac suddenly turned serious. "Excuse us." 

He rolled up the partition between the driver and passenger and pointedly turned on the radio. 

"At least choose a different song!" Grantaire said, banging on the glass as "Fancy" blared through the car. He turned to Joly to complain, but Joly folded his arms and turned away from him. 

Grantaire hated when Joly pouted. It was completely exaggerated, but nonetheless effective, because Joly looked like a kicked kitten, and Grantaire always, without fail, felt guilty. 

"What?" he said exasperatedly. "Are you going to insist we listen to this song?"

"Yes," Joly sullenly replied. "Because I _am_ so fancy. But more than that, stop interfering with me and Bossuet. He's nice."

"He's a criminal," Grantaire said slowly, unable to believe he had to explain this to Joly.

Joly gave him an unimpressed look. “So are we, sometimes, on a strictly technical level.  You know as well as I do that breaking the law doesn’t necessarily mean you’re a bad person. We bend the rules to get the truth, and the Amis do it to bring justice.”

“I don’t think they bend the rules so much as smash them into smithereens.”

“And you like that about them,” Joly said. Well, he had a point.

 “But you shouldn’t get romantically entangled with someone you know is dangerous,” Grantaire said, getting frustrated. “Or that you’re working with.”

Joly coughed loudly, though his cough sounded suspiciously like “ _Hypocrite_ ,” and Grantaire wasn’t even going to pretend to know what he meant by that.  

They spent the rest of the rather lengthy car ride in silence. Joly was usually one of the most cheerful people in the world, but when he decided he was mad about something, he was nearly impossible to deal with. Grantaire got bored of trying to get a grumpy Joly to look at him, and turned his attention outside the tinted windows. The city faded into suburbs, which faded into fields sparsely populated with mostly abandoned looking buildings. It was in front of one of these buildings that they stopped.

Courfeyrac opened the door for them, and Grantaire got a better look at the rusting warehouse before them. Enjolras was inside, illuminated by shafts of light coming from the rafters. He had been leaning over a table looking at a map of some sort, but when he noticed them, he headed over to greet them.

"Well, it's cliché, I'll give you that," Grantaire said, gesturing around the abandoned building. "If I'm being honest, I'm a little offended you didn't blindfold me."

"I'm sure you'd love Enjolras to blindfold you," Joly muttered. Courfeyrac snickered. 

"As a matter of professional courtesy," Grantaire agreed. Except judging by the look Joly was giving him, he wasn't talking about criminal professionalism. He raised his eyebrows quizzically, but Joly just rolled his eyes in response. 

"Idiot." 

So Joly was still sulky from earlier. Great. 

"I've read Joly's blog," Enjolras said wryly. "I figured even if we did blindfold you, you would be able to figure out where we took you. This isn't one of our usual safehouses anyway. In case you were wondering."

"I'm a little offended you don't trust me," Grantaire said. 

"No you're not," Enjolras said. 

And no, he wasn't. Not really. Grantaire would think Enjolras was an idiot to trust a former drug addict recovering from a mental breakdown who solved murders for fun. Still, he couldn't quite quiet the pang in his chest that yearned for the Amis to accept and trust him.

"What did you think of my blog?" Joly asked eagerly. 

"Colorful," Enjolras decided after pausing. 

Joly beamed. 

Grantaire grabbed Enjolras's arm. "Can I have a word with you?" 

Without waiting for an answer, he dragged Enjolras a little ways away from the rest of the group. Rather than look outraged at being manhandled, Enjolras looked vaguely amused. This made _Grantaire_ feel upset. It bothered him that Enjolras didn't see him as a threat, that he never seemed to take him completely seriously.

Enjolras didn't break the silence. He merely blinked, indicating that he wouldn't ask why Grantaire so rudely took him aside. He would make Grantaire talk first. So he did. 

"Why are you getting Joly involved in this?" 

If his question surprised Enjolras, his impassive face gave no indication. 

"Why wouldn't we? From what we know about you, you mostly work with Joly. And we knew you would tell him whatever you know.”

"Telling him what's happening is one thing. Inviting him along is another."

"How is that different than when you bring him on any of your other cases?" 

"It's...well..." That was a valid point. "This is more dangerous." 

Enjolras's raised eyebrow indicated he had read through _all_ of their case files, and he knew that compared to the time Joly had gone undercover for several weeks as a doctor giving house calls to an Eastern European mobster, this was a breeze. 

"And anyway," Grantaire said, refusing to back down. "What gives you the right to send one of your friends in to flirt with him? You can't just play people like that."

"We can, and we do. Often," Enjolras said. Grantaire remembered Enjolras's demure demeanor, his gracious smiles, and his soft voice when he was around Babet. "But I didn't tell Bossuet to flirt with Joly. I needed someone  to distract him at the ball. I didn't specify how. Bossuet volunteered."

"Oh." 

"I think he was a fan of Joly's from his blog," Enjolras continued. 

Grantaire wasn't sure if he was glad that Bossuet's affections seemed sincere, or if he should be concerned a member of a criminal organization was courting his roommate.

Evidentially, Enjolras decided the conversation was over, because he already started walking back to the main group. He didn't even bother to see whether or not Grantaire followed. Grantaire wondered if it was because he didn't care, or because he knew Grantaire would follow.

"Gentlemen," Enjolras gestured towards a cluster of chairs where Combeferre was already seated, flipping through a tablet and frowning. 

Grantaire looked around. He was expecting more people. "Is this everyone?" he asked, sliding into a chair next to Courfeyrac. 

"No," said a voice from one of the side-doors. A wiry red-headed man slipped in.

Enjolras's mouth tightened into a thin line, but he didn't say anything as the ginger sat down with their group. The stranger and Grantaire eyed each other curiously.

"So you're the famous detective?" he asked.

"And you are?"

Grantaire could already tell from his calloused hands and toned muscles that he was a man used to hard work and manual labor. He worked hard, Grantaire would assume from his somewhat stiff gait - his muscles must be sore. Not to mention there were bags under his eyes indicating lack of sleep. Given his clothes, which were a little worn, and in some places, expertly mended, Grantaire could also assume this man was not as well-off as his colleagues. There were slight paper cuts on his hands, which might suggest he was an avid reader, thought the sheer number might indicate another kind of hobby. Grantaire made a mental note to look out for more signs so he could deduce said hypothetical hobby later.

"Feuilly," the man said, shaking Grantaire's hand. “Code name Hephaestus.”

This time, Enjolras sputtered indignantly.

"This is exactly why I didn't want you at this meeting! You're going to tell him too much."

"Relax," Feuilly said. "I'm the one who's going to be at the police station. He would find out about me anyway."

Enjolras still looked sour. "You didn't have to give him your real name. The code name would be sufficient."

"You said he wouldn't sell us out," Feuilly said, looking amused.

"That's no reason to take unnecessary risks," Enjolras said, viciously straightening his papers.

Grantaire was getting the impression that the only person Enjolras wanted to take unnecessary risks in Les Amis was Enjolras.

"Feuilly is Enjolras's favorite," Courfeyrac stage-whispered to Grantaire.

"I don't have favorites," Enjolras crisply turning on his laptop and plugging it into a projector.

"He does. If you turn on Feuilly, he will gut you like a fish," Courfeyrac concluded sagely.

Enjolras scowled.

"I think if I turn on any of you, he'll gut me," Grantaire said seriously.

"Correct. Now, if we could please get on task." Enjolras pulled up a slide.

“That’s a blueprint to Scotland Yard,” Grantaire said.

“Obviously. Now, we know Bamatabois’s latest victim’s name. Zéphine. She’s a local college student, and daughter of a prominent businessman. Her boyfriend is actually one of Bamatabois’s regular accomplices who taped them having sex and gave the tape to Bamatabois. She’s been paying Bamatabois off, but he keeps raising his price to return the tapes to her. She’s due to pay Bamatabois by the end of this week, but our sources indicate she’s run out of money. So we need to steal the tapes back by then.”

“When, exactly?” Grantaire asked.

“Tonight. Zephine is understandably panicking, and we think she’ll try to contact the police before the week is up. Unfortunately for her, there are moles in the force, and by bringing this to the police, she’ll only accelerate the plan. She’s been out of town on a family trip, so we’re going to take care of this before she gets back.

Now there are three distinct but simultaneous parts to the plan. Combeferre, you’re coordinating. The first part: getting rid of the original material. I lead a team into Bamatabois’s apartment and we wipe the digital copies.”

“How can you be sure you get all of them?” Grantaire asked.

To his surprise, Enjolras didn’t look annoyed at being interrupted. “We’ve been tracking his movements online for a while and we’ve looked into what he’s done in the past. He’s thorough in storing his blackmail, but luckily for us, consistent. He seems to figure what he’s done in the past has worked so far, so he hasn’t tried anything new. We know his system inside out by now.”

“And while you’re breaking in, I’ll call the police,” Combeferre added.

Grantaire raised his eyebrows.

“Perfect,” Enjolras nodded.

“No. Explain,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras sighed, which Grantaire thought was wildly unfair, since they had clearly already done a lot of planning without him and he was having to play catch up. Again.

“The police will enter the house to catch us, which they will _almost_ manage. We’ll have wiped all the copies stored online and on his computer, but leave some of the physical tapes behind. We know Bamatabois stores these tapes on external storage drives-”

“And you know this how?” Joly asked.

“We’ve broken in his house before,” Bossuet said breezily.

“Precisely. This is one of my external storage drives,” Enjolras held up a generic looking black drive. “We’ll leave it plugged into Bamatabois’s computer, and make it look like we were hacking him.”

“Which you will be,” Grantaire mumbled.

“The decoy drive will also have information on Les Amis on it, more specifically blueprints for the first two of our robberies. Completely fake, of course. But they’ll be believable.”

“What’s the point of that?” Joly asked.

“The police will think they’re closing in on us,” Courfeyrac smirked. “They’ll think we’re getting sloppy. They interrupted us mid-crime and in the process found our old plans, which will throw them off our trail even more.”

“And more importantly,” Combeferre said. “This external hard drive case is completely identical to the kind Bamatabois uses.”

“We’ll leave out Bamatabois’s blackmail material. The police will have to take _all_ the hard drives into evidence, because any of them could potentially be ours. And that’s where you come in,” Enjolras turned to Grantaire.

“You’ll need me to be at Scotland Yard.”

“Yes,” Enjolras turned back to the blueprint. “Feuilly will also be there.”

“What do you have so far?” Grantaire asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

Enjolras changed the image on the projector, pulling up two ID photos. "Detectives Mathieu and Brevet. We know these are Bambatois's inside men. Once they find out what happened, they'll break into the evidence locker and steal the hard drives."

"They won't destroy it until they release the videos," Grantaire said, slowly trying to piece things together. "Bambatois has a reputation to uphold, and if they just wipe the hard drives without uploading anything, they would jeopardize that."

"Correct. What we need you to go is quite simple. We need you to make sure someone finds the stolen tapes, and that it can be definitively linked to Mathieu and Brevet."

"Make sure Theo Gillenormand finds it," Courfeyrac piped up. 

"And that no one suspects your involvement," Bousset added, somewhat unnecessarily.

"Oh is that it?" Grantaire said sarcastically. "That shouldn't be hard at all."

"I'm sending Feuilly in with you," Enjolras almost sounded affronted that Grantaire didn't think this would be enough.

"What exactly is Feuilly going to do?" 

"Help divert attention at crucial times."

There was an excited gasp from both Joly and Bossuet. 

"So you could say he's a-" Joly began.

"NO!" Courfeyrac said loudly. 

"Red hairing!" Joly and Bossuet said simultaneously before dissolving into giggles. Feuilly smoothed his ginger locks down almost self-consciously, but he looked amused.

Grantaire suspected Courfeyrac’s look of horror reflected his own because dear God now there were two of them.  He glanced at Enjolras, and almost missed the way his mouth quirked up in tiny grin that vanished almost as quickly as it appeared. He was surprised- he thought Enjolras would be annoyed they were off task, but then he remembered Enjolras was probably the one who chose a pun as their group name.

“Anyway,” Enjolras said. “We have a few ideas on what you can do when you get in the police station, but if you have any suggestions, you have more insight than any of us.”

With all the surveillance Grantaire was sure the Amis had done, he doubted that very much.

“A few,” he quickly ran through several scenarios simultaneously in his mind. “Why Theo Gillenormand?”

“He has a close relationship with Inspector Simplice. Simplice is of a high enough rank in the force that she can do something with this information and a good enough track record that we’re sure that she _will_ do something with it.”

“She has an impeccable reputation for honesty,” Combeferre added.

Courfeyrac shifted subtly. They were hiding something. “Is there someone else that is in a similar position as Gillenormand?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras shrugged. “A few. We chose him because we knew he would be on shift tonight and we’ve thoroughly checked out his background. Simplice will be off duty when this goes down, so we need someone to secure the evidence until we can get her back to the station.”

And Grantaire _almost_ believed that was the only reason. He wanted to probe further but instead said, “Oh.”

They moved on, with Grantaire asking a few more questions. He found out that one of Feuilly’s apparently many jobs was taking nightshifts with an electric company that was contracted by Scotland Yard. He had been to their offices before. Enough times that some of the people trusted him and liked him, but not enough so that his relationship with anyone there extended beyond vague pleasantries or so he would be especially memorable.

Grantaire eventually laid out a plan that everyone could agree on. After hammering out some logistics, he felt pretty pleased with himself. It might be wistful thinking on his part, but he thought Enjolras might look impressed.

“We’ll make sure we get all this in place by tonight. Bossuet can take you back. You and Joly relax, and we’ll see you later. By this time tomorrow, everything will be back to normal.”

Grantaire was almost positive that as soon as they left, Enjolras and his lieutenants would continue nitpicking parts of the plan that he wasn’t privy to. And then they would undoubtedly start plans for their next job. A job that would not involve him.

"So...I just see you guys tonight? That's it?"

"That's it," Enjolras confirmed.

 

 

That wasn’t it.

Grantaire couldn't just leave it at that.

"It's for knowledge's sake," Grantaire told Joly, who said nothing, but simply raised an eyebrow at him. 

They were seated at a small cafe in central London. Grantaire was scribbling down his ideas on who the rest of the Amis were, what they were planning next, and any theories he had on Enjolras’s history. The man was an enigma Grantaire couldn’t wait to crack.

"Knowledge," Joly took a sip of tea. "Mmm-hmm."

How Joly could make drinking tea a judgmental activity was beyond Grantaire, but he had other things to worry about. 

"Why Theo Gillenormand?" he said. 

"Come again?"

"Out of all the people in Scotland Yard to make sure gets the evidence, why him?"

Joly sighed. Grantaire knew Joly well enough to distinguish between his sighs, and the one he just gave was one of resignation. Poor Joly just wanted a nice, peaceful lunch, and wasn't going to get it.

"They think he's trustworthy."

"Yes," Grantaire jabbed his finger at his paper. "But why? What in his background did they find that made them decide he was their first choice?"

"Outstanding service record?"

Grantaire scoffed. "It's Scotland Yard. Everyone has outstanding service. That doesn't necessarily mean Enjolras would think they were trustworthy. If anything, he'd trust them less."

"So he's worked with the Amis before?"

Grantaire shook his head, thumbing through an internet search he pulled upon his phone. "He's a bit of a golden boy. Clearly ambitious. He's not the type to do anything to risk his career. If I can tell that by one minute of Googling him, then Enjolras definitely knows. He wouldn’t approach him for this kind of thing,"

"Then Simplice, his mentor. Enjolras said they knew she was clean."

"There are a dozen guys in that office working that shift that at a glance, are pretty much the same as Theo. He seems like a decent, if somewhat cocky guy. So what is it about him that made the Amis decide to put their trust in him?"

"I don't know," Joly groaned. "But can we just drop it? Please? We're about to pull some serious shit at Scotland Yard. I'd like to enjoy my potential last meal as a free man."

“It won’t be your last meal as a free man,” Grantaire said seriously. “We’ll eat dinner before we go.”

 

 

Joly was immensely disappointed that they wouldn’t be wearing all black ensembles or ski masks for their part of the mission. But since they would be strolling directly into the offices of Scotland Yard, they would have to be a little more subtle than that.

They did have dinner, as Grantaire promised, although it was rushed. They burned some grilled cheese sandwiches, and Joly sliced up some apples for them both, muttering something about saving Grantaire from scurvy. They just finished cramming their dishes into their full dish-washer when Grantaire’s burner phone dinged.

            Odysseus: You're up.

Joly peered over Grantaire’s shoulder. “Does that mean they’re done with Phase One?”

Grantaire stuffed the phone in Joly’s inside coat pocket. “It means they’re ready for us to go.”

He still found it a little insulting that he wasn’t trusted enough with any more details. But from a strategic standpoint, he understood. And since Combeferre was the one coordinating with everyone and communicating with him, Grantaire didn’t expect anything more. Enjolras’s right hand man still didn’t seem thrilled with Grantaire’s involvement.

They hailed a cab, and one short ride later, they were standing at the foot of the Scotland Yard headquarters. Grantaire repressed a shudder. He had only been there a handful of times since his meltdown. If they needed his services, Javert usually arranged for Grantaire to come to the crime scene, or would pay him a visit himself at odd hours of the night. The last thing Scotland Yard needed was photographs of its once star detective skulking around their offices again. Especially since after he said some not-so-kind things about the organization following his last official case.

“You okay?” Joly asked.

Grantaire nodded. “Let’s do this.”

He pushed open the door, and was relieved to see most of the staff left for the day. Experience told Grantaire that sometimes the entire department would work overtime if a case reached a critical point. Luckily today was not one of those days, and normal work hours had come and gone, most of the staff with them.

Joly gave his arm a reassuring squeeze, and they moved forward. Once they reached the front desk, Grantaire told the exhausted-looking receptionist he was here to see Javert. They decided Grantaire should ask for his former supervisor, since he had the strongest relationship to him out of anyone at Scotland Yard. It could seem like one of Grantaire’s eccentricities to ask for him. Anyone else might raise suspicions.

She blinked at him. "Inspector Javert is home for the day."

Which Grantaire already knew.

"Can you call him back?" Grantaire asked.

"Umm..." her eyes flitted over to her co-workers.

Grantaire strode past the desk where the receptionist was still stammering and sat on the bench in front of Javert's office. As expected, one of the detectives immediately swooped over to where Grantaire and Joly had settled. He gave them a once-over dismissively.

"Inspector Javert isn't in," the officer (J. Peterson, his nametag said) told Grantaire haughtily. "You'll have to leave. 

"Listen, Jim," Grantaire said. 

Jim gaped at him. "How did you know my name?"

 _Because I passed your desk on my way over and saw your nametag_ , dumbass, Grantaire thought. 

"It doesn't matter. What does matter is I have some information that might interest your boss concerning Les Amis."

Jim narrowed his eyes. "Javert specifically said not to involve you in that case."

"And no one at Scotland Yard has. But not everyone in the country got the memo, and private citizens are at perfect liberty to ask me to investigate on their behalf."

"We have quite a bit of new information on the Amis," Jim said carefully.

"I assume you're referring to the evidence you recovered after investigating a break in?"

"How did you know that?" Jim asked suspiciously. 

"The more you keep asking me obvious questions, the more I wonder how you ever made the force in the first place," Grantaire said. 

"...because you heard it on the police scanner," Jim concluded lamely. 

"There was a report being printed at the front desk when I came in," Grantaire said. "You might want to not do that again in the future. Ever."

Jim huffed. "Well, we don't usually get weirdos in here looking at them."

Joly clutched his heart. "Did he just call you a weirdo?"

"I think he did, Joly. I think he did." Grantaire leaned forward. "Listen, prick, I have information. Logic and regulation say you should take it down."

"Come back during office hours."

"Did it occur to you that I can't be seen at Scotland Yard?" Grantaire asked. “I’m risking a lot here.”

"Not my problem."

"It will be your problem if I walk out of here and you miss a lead because you didn't take my statement. Maybe it's information you already have, maybe it isn't. But is that a risk you're willing to take?"

Jim sighed deeply and Grantaire knew he was winning. "Fine. I'll take your statement."

Grantaire shook his head violently. "No, I don't trust you. This is sensitive, and I'll only give my statement to Javert himself."

Jim scowled. "I can't just call Javert in the middle of the night for this. Just- wait here. Let me talk to my supervisor see what I can do."

Grantaire nodded and stood up. 

"I just said wait here." Jim snapped. 

"I need to use the loo."

"Why?"

"Oooh. Medical question. I got this," Joly said. "But is it a number one or number two?"

"Just go," Jim said. "I'm watching you. No funny business."

Grantaire rolled his eyes. To be fair to Jim, Grantaire usually managed to see someone's notes or a piece of evidence he wasn't supposed to whenever he visited Scotland Yard. Sometimes he would be found in a locked room that was supposed to be off limits. Although, usually they didn't find him. They just (correctly) suspected he had been in there but couldn't prove it. 

Grantaire turned into the hall that contained the bathrooms, and storage lockers for personal items. Just as he pushed the door open, he heard a loud crash from the other side of the station, and cry of pain. Good. Feuilly was right on time. That meant Grantaire had five minutes, maybe seven if Feuilly could swing it. He slipped into the bathroom, (noting Mathieu and Brevet jump up from their desks to investigate the commotion) counted to ten, then crossed the hallway and went into the locker room. Combeferre would be looping the security camera footage so no one reviewing the tapes would see him go to the lockers, but would see him go into the bathroom. 

It didn't take long for him long to find the two locker numbers Combeferre had texted him. It took him even less time to pick the locks. As expected, the hard drives were in the lockers. Combeferre had watched the security feed and confirmed Brevet and Mathieu had taken the bait and put the stolen evidence in their lockers. Luckily, the Amis didn’t have to worry about the videos being uploaded until Brevet and Mathieu left – if they tried to upload anything from work, it would be easy for even the mediocre IT to trace back to the office.

After wrapping the hard drives securely in plastic bags, Grantaire carefully placed a smoke bomb in each of the lockers. He double checked that they were ready to be deployed. Perfect. That was almost unnervingly easy. He could hardly believe that his end of the plan had gone off without a – oh shit, that was the doorknob turning.

He glared at his phone, which had no new texts, so Combeferre hadn’t even tried to warn him. Great. He could make a dash for one of the showers, but it was questionable if there would be enough time. _Shit._

He flew towards the showers anyway and waited. No one came in, so after a minute, Grantaire edged out of the shower and to the door. He heard raised voices.

“Hey, fuck you!”

“You’re just adding to your charges, Jondrette.”

“I didn’t fucking do anything.”

“You just tried to escape from custody.”

Grantaire took a deep breath, peeked down the hallway where an angry, worn looking young woman in handcuffs was scowling at a beleaguered looking officer.

“I was just trying to get away from your fellow creep who was trying to feel me up.”

“Ms. Jondrette, he was checking you for weapons.”

She scoffed, tossing her hair. “I know what he was doing. I demand a female officer to frisk me.”

“Ms. Jondrette-”

“Sexual harassment!” she shouted. “Police force taking advantage of helpless girls.”

Grantaire ran into the bathroom, counted to five to give Combeferre time to unloop the security footage, then walked out and past the quarrelling pair like everything was normal.

“I’ll see if I can get a female officer, just keep your voice down.”

Grantaire slipped past Brevet’s desk and seeing no one was paying attention, slipped a cell phone in the top drawer. The phone wasn’t part of the Amis’s original plan, but Grantaire had devoted a few hours of his afternoon to creating a fake phone for Brevet with incriminating ‘evidence’ of the past crimes Grantaire knew Bambatois had been part of. Brevet may or may not have been one of Bambatois’s accomplices at the time, but he would definitely rat Bambatois out to strike some sort of deal, which was just fine with Grantaire.

He couldn’t put a fake phone on Mathieu’s desk, because unfortunately the security cameras would catch him if he tried to do something similar.

Grantaire returned to his bench, only to find Feuilly half-way sprawled across it, clutching a bloody arm. Joly examined his injuries gravely while a semi-circle of nervous officers surrounded them.

"I'm fine," Feuilly said weakly.

"No, you're not," Joly snapped with surprising firmness. "I'm taking you to a hospital."

"One of us can go," one of the officers offered.

"No, I'll go and make sure he doesn't hurt himself further," Joly said, using his best Doctor Voice.

He helped Feuilly get to his feet.

"It's not broken," Feuilly protested as Joly lead him off.

"It should at least be X-rayed," Joly said, pushing the front doors open.

Grantaire sat down on the now vacant bench. "I guess I missed all the excitement."

Jim nodded. "One of our contractors fell off a ladder. Will you be alright without your friend?"

He was trying to get rid of him. It was a good effort, Grantaire supposed. "I'll be fine."

"Fuck you!" the Jondrette girl shouted, her voice echoing from across the station. "Keep your hands off me, pervert."

One spectacle replaced another, and everyone turned to where the Jondrette girl was screaming at two officers. No one else seemed to want to approach her, and Grantaire didn't blame them. While she was just a girl, and a handcuffed one at that, she looked like she could rip someone's throat out with her teeth, spit it out and laugh about it.

The more the people that crowded around to watch, the more agitated the Jondrette girl became. Grantaire saw Mathieu reach for his Taser. The Jondrette girl raged on, but paused when her eyes landed on Theo.

“Hey, wait. You. You’ve searched me before. You don’t have wandering hands. You do it, since these idiots can’t get me a woman to do this.”

And just like that, she calmed down enough for a bewildered looking Theo to step forward.

“A little privacy you pervs,” the Jondrette girl snapped, and to Grantaire’s amazement, the dozen or so police officers listened to her, dispersing.

The Jondrette girl took a step closer to the hallway that lead to the bathrooms and lockers, so she was slightly more shielded against any prying eyes. Grantaire hoped Combeferre was paying attention, because this was the perfect opportunity. It even saved Grantaire the trouble from finding a reason to pull Theo aside, chat him and most importantly, get him to be the closest officer to the locker room.

Theo carefully patted the Jondrette down, looking afraid that she might snap at him.

That was when the smoke bombs went off. Theo sprinted away from the Jondrette girl and towards the locker room where smoke poured out. The fire alarms started blaring. It took all of Grantaire’s self-control not to look at the security camera and grin, because really, Combeferre had fantastic timing. Instead, he forced himself to look surprised and curious and shuffle towards the chaos.

A coughing Theo emerged from the locker room, looking furious. “I need the station to go on lockdown and a squad from another unit called in, ASAP.”

“What’s going on?” Jim asked.

“Just do it,” Theo snapped. “No one leaves here until the other squad arrives, and no one goes into the locker room.”

Grantaire settled back on his bench, doing his best to look confused. It only took about ten minutes for a squad from another station to arrive.

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” Theo greeted them. “My supervisor, Inspector Simplice will be along shortly to help oversee the investigation.”

“I’m here,” said a woman. Inspector Simplice wore a black suit, her grey hair tied back. It was impressive, how well-put together she looked at this hour, after undoubtedly being woken up and having to rush to the station. Grantaire never worked closely with her himself, but she was a terrifyingly competent woman. He respected her, which wasn’t something he could honestly say about a lot of people. He couldn’t wait to see her destroy Brevet, Mathieu and Bambatois.

 “What the hell is happening?” Brevet said, and Grantaire was pleased to see he was looking slightly panicked.

“Some evidence from lock up was found in you and Mathieu’s lockers,” Theo said furiously.

“Theo, if you would escort these two men to the interrogation room so we can…chat,” Simplice said. Her voice was chilly. “I want to take a look at the scene.”

“No one has been in or out, ma’am,” Theo said.

Satisfied that the scene was actually secure and the situation handled, Grantaire stood up.

“What are you doing?” Jim said, appearing out of nowhere.

“Leaving. The station was in lockdown until back up arrived. They arrived.”

“Your statement…” Jim said.

“You’re clearly busy,” Grantaire said coolly. “And I told you I wanted to keep this statement and my presence at this location quiet. Maybe you didn’t understand the danger I’m putting myself in by bringing this forward, but _clearly_ this facility isn’t secure. Good night, Jim.”

He pushed past Jim in a huff and headed straight outside into the night where a black cab stood idling at the curb.

Grantaire rapped on the window. “Taking passengers?”

The back door unlocked, and he climbed in. Courfeyrac grinned at him from the front seat.

“Excellent storming off, sir. Hat’s off to you.”

He then proceeded to tip the ridiculous cabbie hat he was wearing.

“Are you serious about the hat?”

“I’m always serious about hats,” Courfeyrac said gravely.

“They let me push the button to detonate the smoke bombs,” Joly said gleefully.

Grantaire patted him on the back. “Excellent button pushing,” he buckled up. “So…safe house?”

“Safe house,” Courfeyrac confirmed.

 

 

It wasn’t a long drive. They ended up in an abandoned townhouse near the Thames. Courfeyrac hopped out the front seat and opened the door for Grantaire.

“Thanks.”

Courfeyrac held his hand out expectantly.

“I’m not tipping you.”

“Stingy.”

Inside the townhouse, Enjolras, Combeferre, Feuilly, Bossuet and Joly were waiting for them. Feuilly dabbed hopelessly at his sleeve with a damp cloth. “Next time, I say we say I have a sprain. Or a concussion. Anything that doesn’t need fake blood.”

“Status update?” Enjolras said to Grantaire.

He rolled his eyes. “Like Combeferre didn’t already fill you in.”

“I want to hear how you think it went.”

Grantaire felt something inside him flutter. “Well, like you said, Theo locked down station and got Simplice there before anyone could interfere with anyone. They know Mathieu and Brevet stole the tapes. I don’t think it’ll take long for them to fold and turn in Bambatois in exchange for some kind of deal. How did things go on your end?”

Enjolras weighed his words carefully. “Good. As you know, we were able to get the blackmail material found and taken into evidence, and that’s now secure. And the icing on the cake: we stole some valuables from Bambatois’s flat and left a note signed by Orestes. Tomorrow morning, everyone will know what kind of man Bambatois is.”

“Nice.”

“Now what?” Joly asked.

“Now we’re done,” Courfeyrac shrugged. “I can give you guys a lift back to your apartment.”

Grantaire nodded because he knew that, but he felt a lump in his throat. “Great.”

Enjolras side-stepped in front of him and extended his hand. "Thank you. For your help."

Grantaire shook it. "I didn’t do that much.”

Enjolras gripped his hand a little tighter. “That isn’t true. Your smoke bomb was better than what any of could have done on such short notice. And none of us could have navigated Scotland Yard that quickly without getting caught. Your insider knowledge was invaluable.”

“Yeah. Insider,” Grantaire scoffed, because he never felt more like an outsider than when he went back to where he used to work.

“Do you think Scotland Yard would have let anyone else push their way into the office, stay there, and walk around unsupervised?” Enjolras said seriously. “Even if you don’t think so, they still respect you.”

He let go of Grantaire’s hand and let his own drop back down to his side. Grantaire mourned the contact instantly, but was comforted somewhat by the intensity with which Enjolras looked at him. He really believed the words he was saying- that Grantaire was useful and wasn’t a complete fuck up. Grantaire swallowed, and tore his gaze away first.

“Well, I knew you were delusional when I started working with you,” he laughed. He saw Enjolras wrench open his mouth to argue. “But anyway, Joly and I should get celebrating. Bambatois is finally get what’s coming to him after all these years.”

“It must feel good.”

“It does,” Grantaire said. He was almost afraid to feel happy about getting the bastard after so long. Success and happiness were feelings that he too rarely felt, and he was half afraid if he allowed himself to revel too much, they might disappear.

“Happy celebrating,” Enjolras stepped out of his way.

“Goodbye, Enjolras.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Grantaire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it took me this long to update. It seems I don't have what it takes to make it as a criminal mastermind, because this was a hard chapter to write. Oh well. I'll have to move on to other career options. And hopefully not take as long to update next time.
> 
> This probably wasn't a very accurate portrayal of Scotland Yard - I kind of just made it fit the needs of my story. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed it. Feed back of any kind is always much appreciated. 
> 
> Come say [hi](http://babesatthebarricade.tumblr.com/) and talk to me about stuff.


	4. Bored

Grantaire woke up feeling strangely empty. It only took him a few seconds to remember why: he had finished his dealings with the Amis. They had no more need of him. It wasn’t anything personal, he knew that. It was just the end of a prearranged transaction. It was okay, he told himself, lying back on his bed, staring at the white ceiling. He always got post-case blues after working on something particularly interesting. He just needed to distract himself from the fact he would likely never see the Amis or Enjolras again.

He blinked at his ceiling again. It was so white and boring. Why was his ceiling so boring?                                        

 

 

Joly knocked on the door in the early afternoon.

“Grantaire? I know you’re probably wallowing now, but you can’t sleep all day. I made some lunch, and then we’re going to a museum or something, because this isn’t healthy,” He pushed the door open. “Holy-”

Grantaire was on a makeshift scaffold he had built, doing the finishing touches on his ceiling.

“You like?”

“Uh…”

“I thought I should decorate it,” he said, leaping down. “And when I was a kid, my mum had these glowing stars and solar systems she put on my ceiling, and I always thought it was a good idea, you know, imitating the night sky on your ceiling. So I decided to paint the night sky. But not a realistic one, because that’s boring. So this is my take on Van Gogh’s Starry Night.”

He presented it with a flourish. He used the same swirling style and vivid colors of Van Gogh’s masterpiece. And added his own unique touches.

“Is that the Death Star chasing Serenity?”

“I think the Firefly crew would be very much a thorn in the side of the Galactic Empire.”

“Oo-kay.”

“And here,” Grantaire shoved a stack of papers at Joly. “I solved a bunch of cases that people emailed to your blog. They were fairly easy.”

“You solved them from home, without actually looking at clues?”

“Like I said, they were easy,” Grantaire said.

Joly looked around the room, a crease growing between his brow. He pointed at the music stand where a half-composed waltz sat. “Did you start that today?”

“Yes. I’ll finish it later,” Grantaire said. “I was working on it, but I got antsy, so I had a few rounds with the punching bag.”

Joly stepped over the chemistry experiment that occupied a good portion of the floor. “And yet, you refuse to take out the trash because it’s too much work,” he muttered.

“And it’s boring.” Grantaire added.

“This isn’t healthy, R,” Joly said sternly.

“I thought you were the one who said I can’t sit around and wallow.”

“This is the opposite extreme,” Joly said. “You’re going to burn yourself out trying to distract yourself.”

“Distract myself from what?” Grantaire asked as his egg time dinged. “Excuse me, I have to check something.”

He dashed across the room and opened his mini fridge.  The mini fridge that was for science, not the mini fridge that was for food. Because according to Joly, after everything he had stuck in the fridge, putting anything he intended to eat in there was a health hazard or something like that, so he had to have two.

Joly just sighed. “Come find me when you’re ready to talk.”

                                       

 

It was dinner time. Joly was at the dining table and heard a horrific sounding crash.

“I’m fine! Fine! Don’t worry.”

                                       

 

Joly knocked on Grantaire’s door. “R? I’m going to bed?”

He just got loud violin playing in response.

                                       

 

Joly jolted awake. He cast his eyes wildly around the room for any sign of disturbance. Once satisfied, he let out a relieved sigh, and rolled back into a comfortable position. At least he meant to roll back on his bed. Instead, he rolled on top of Grantaire, who was lying on his bed right next to him.

“Jesus! R!”

“Joly, I’m bored,” Grantaire said finally.

Joly sighed, sitting up.  He glanced at his alarm clock. It was 3 am. “Are you sure that’s what you’re feeling?”

“Of course. The Amis were an excellent distraction. I was bored before, but now it’s so much worse.”

“Are you sure that’s the reason you’re so upset?”

“I’m not upset. I’m bored. Aren’t you listening?” Grantaire snapped. “Come with me.”

Joly looked mournfully at his pillow before following Grantaire downstairs to the kitchen. The counter and table were covered with notes, random objects Joly could only assume were evidence and photographs. Grantaire grabbed an armful of these, seemingly at random, before pushing Joly unceremoniously into their safe room. Door securely locked, he started sorting through the papers.

“The safe room, R? Really?”

“You don’t think they bugged the rest of the house?” Grantaire asked, raising his eyebrow.

“Why would they?”

“That’s what I would do,” Grantaire said matter-of-factly.

Joly sighed, but didn’t argue any more. Grantaire handed him one of the photos he grabbed. Joly blinked at it.

“Who is this?”

“She goes by many names. Her real name is Eponine Thenardier. The other night, she was Eponine Jondrette.”

“The girl at the station?” Joly squinted at her picture. He hadn’t actually seen Eponine, just heard about her from Grantaire.

“I was about to get caught, and she just happens to create a distraction so I could slip out?” Grantaire said. He had seen enough of the world to not believe in coincidences.

Joly exhaled. “So what’s next?”

“We need to do surveillance on Ms. Thenardier. And,” he held up another picture. “Theo Gillenormand. There’s more to why he was involved than the Amis let on.”

“Okay, but to what end?”

“Come again?”

Joly rubbed his eyes. “Finding out what Theo’s connections to the Amis. Getting more information on Eponine. What do we do with it?”

“Can’t we gather knowledge for knowledge’s sake?” Grantaire said.

Judging by Joly’s unimpressed look, the answer was no. “So you don’t intend to, I don’t know…see the Amis again? Get involved in more of their operations?”

“I would never.”

Joly groaned. “I’m going back to bed.”

“Whatever for?”

“So I’m alert when we follow Eponine tomorrow.”

“She’s a professional criminal, Joly. She’ll know if we’re tailing her. But I managed to figure out her address, and hacked into CCTV. I’ll start surveying her apartment to see if she has any regular visitors and you can use the camera feed to track her movements throughout London and see where she usually goes.”

“You’re insane.”

Grantaire frowned. “You’re right. Tracking someone with the CCTV feed is much harder. Too advanced for you, I think. Okay. I’ll track her, you just watch the tapes on her apartment.”

“Goodnight, Grantaire.”

“But-”

He was cut off by Joly slamming his bedroom door.

                                       

 

 

When Joly returned at eight in the morning, Grantaire was seated cross-legged in the living room, staring at nine simultaneously playing TV screens. He held his hand out expectantly without diverting his gaze. Joly handed him his coffee.

“Have you been sleeping all this time?” Grantaire asked.

“Yes. Because I am a human. Humans need sleep,” Joly said pointedly.

“Sleep you can do any time. I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

“Dead like you will be if you reach a certain level of sleep deprivation.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes and leapt to his feet. “Come on.”

“R-”

“I’ve gone at least a solid week without sleeping before, Joly,” Grantaire said impatiently. “Come on. The game’s afoot!”

He strode to the coatrack, grabbed his pea coat and his favorite beanie and pulled them on without breaking stride. Joly scrambled after him.

“So can you at least tell me where we’re going?”

Grantaire winked mysteriously. Joly sighed. He hated when Grantaire teased him like this. But Joly didn’t say anything else as he trotted after Grantaire. He did raise his eyebrows when Grantaire lead him down a questionable looking alleyway, but didn’t say anything else. Grantaire strode confidently, then pulled open a door so small and unassuming most people wouldn’t have even noticed it existed. With a little trepidation, Joly ducked in.

“Is this a restaurant?” he said exasperatedly.

“Best Austrian crepes in London,” Grantaire said.

“Are those even a thing?” Joly muttered as he lowered himself into a seat. Grantaire signaled to the man behind the counter for him to bring them his usual order.

“Of course they are. Anyway, we need breakfast. And we can’t talk at the apartment, in case the Amis are listening.”

“So you chose the seediest breakfast spot in London?” Joly said, keeping his voice low.

“You’re so dramatic.  This is only the twentieth most seedy breakfast spot in London. I can’t imagine how you’d handled something in the top ten.”

Joly looked like he wasn’t sure if Grantaire was teasing him or not. He most certainly was not. He took the business of knowing London and all its nooks and crannies very seriously, and this tiny hole in a wall restaurant was far from the worst place he could have taken Joly. To distract Joly so he didn’t notice the cockroach on the floor, he handed him a file.

“Who am I looking at?” Joly asked once he opened it.

“Baron Marius Pontmercy.”

Joly just raised his eyebrow and waited for Grantaire to explain who Marius was. Grantaire paused as the cook brought out their food. He nodded his thanks.

“Baron. That’s kind of impressive,” Joly said finally, as if trying to fill the silence.

“Enjolras’s family has an Earldom.”

Joly put his hands in the air in a show of surrender. “It wasn’t a competition. I didn’t even mention Enjolras.”

“He tries to downplay his peerage you know,” Grantaire said. “Because he’s so principled. There’s nothing in his apartment that even hints at his lineage, and it’s not like he talks about it. I’m sure he’d give it up if he could. He’s ridiculous like that. With his ridiculous face and brain and his stupid hair and ideals.”

Joly laid his head on the table, his entire body shaking. Grantaire watched him, feeling apprehensive. Was he having some kind of panic attack? An allergic reaction?

“Joly?” Grantaire asked concerned. “Joly.”

Joly sat up, tears streaming down his face and Grantaire realized he had been laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“I need to text Bossuet.”

“What? No! We’re not talking to any of the Amis.”

“You don’t understand. I need to,” Joly said, still fighting back his laughter. “I can’t sit through this. By myself. With no one to share in the ridiculousness that is this situation.”

“What situation?” Grantaire said, now exasperated. “I’m trying to tell you about Marius Pontmercy.”

“So tell me about him,” Joly still looked amused. He looked like he was indulging Grantaire, which Grantaire decided to ignore.

“Eponine Thenardier spends a lot of time with him,” Grantaire said, tucking his napkin in front of his shirt.

“So she’s dating him?”

“I don’t think so,” Grantaire said. Even from the grainy CCTV video, it was painfully obvious the way Eponine looked at Marius wasn’t the same way he looked at her. “But they’re very close.”

“Okay. So Eponine has a friend.”

“Interesting fact about Marius Pontmercy. He’s also related to one Theo Gillenormand. Cousins, in fact.”

Now Joly was interested. He leaned forward and rifled through the file.

“So is Theo in on it?”

“From Theo’s Facebook, it doesn’t look like he visits his extended family except for major holidays. My guess: the Amis chose him because he’s not too closely related that it’s easy to connect him to the Amis, much less prove anything. Especially if they didn’t contact him.”

“So Theo isn’t in on it?” Joly looked confused.

“Given his record, I’d say no. If he knew, he’d arrest the Amis. They probably just predicted how he would respond to the situation, and Marius could vouch that his cousin was a good enough person to do the right thing.”

Joly nodded, processing this. It made perfect sense to Grantaire. The problem with a criminal organization contacting a non-corrupt police officer to help them catch other criminals through questionable means was that a good police officer would probably arrest them too. Theo had just the right amount of closeness and distance that the Amis would need to be comfortable enough to make him part of their plan.

“Another interesting fact about Marius: his father was Georges Pontmercy.”

Joly sighed. “Stop saying random names and expecting me to know who they are.”

Georges Pontmercy wasn’t an unreasonable name to expect Joly to know, in Grantaire’s opinion. But Joly looked dangerously close to pouting, so Grantaire indulged him.

“Georges Pontmercy was the right-hand man of Francois Enjolras. Now the bulk of the blame for the Corinth Corporation scandal fell to Enjolras the Elder, but Georges was still arrested. He wasn’t convicted of anything, due to the lack of solid proof, but he lost everything. He lived the rest of his life out in disgrace and poverty.”

“So Georges is dead?”

One of the few things Grantaire loved about rich people was how easy it was to find dirt on them. Everyone was obsessed with the social elite. Finding out just these tidbits on the Pontmercy/Gillenormand family had taken less than ten minutes.

“He died a little less than a year ago. According to society papers, that was around the same time Marius moved out of his grandfather’s flat. The rumor mill has it they had some disagreement. And all this happened just a few months before the Amis started making a name for themselves.”

Joly frowned, processing this information. Apparently he came to the same conclusion as Grantaire because he said, “So Marius is our in.”

“Marius is our in,” Grantaire agreed, toasting Joly.

 

     

 

“Okay, I’m sorry, but this guy can’t be our in,” Joly said.

They had been tailing Marius around all day. It was surprisingly easy, considering they suspected him of being part of stealthy criminal organization. But there they were, following Marius as he went about his day, running errands, and otherwise just exploring London.

“Seriously?” Joly hissed as they watched Marius stop abruptly in the middle of the street and almost get run over by a cyclist. Marius then rotated swiftly 180 degrees and hurried back up the street the way he came, evidently hopelessly lost.

Hopeless was a good word for Marius. He had tripped over his own feet at least three times since that morning. He had walked into two doors while daydreaming. There had been several women (and men) who tried to make eye contact and smile at Marius, and he always responded by blushing and ducking his head.  

Grantaire said nothing as they followed Marius to a used bookstore, where he perused the gardening section. Grantaire and Joly remained outside, just out of his sight, but still able to keep an eye on him as he bought several beat up old books. They could just hear what was going on inside through the glass.

“Enjoy your books,” the man behind the counter told him, handing him his parcels.

“Thanks, you too,” Marius said, trying to exit. Only he pulled on the door clearly labelled “push”.

Joly shot Grantaire a look as they continued tailing him. Grantaire still said nothing. He would have agreed with Joly, if he hadn’t done some extra research on Marius Pontmercy. The boy was some kind of linguistics genius. He was awkward, yes. And a little skittish. But there was more to him than met the eye. Grantaire was sure Marius was somehow another piece of the puzzle.

 

 

Although Grantaire had been sure Marius was a lead, he was surprised by how quickly this lead turned useful. He followed Marius mostly out of boredom. Marius provided endless unintentional entertainment. Joly begged off Marius-stalking duties, claiming it was making him a little sad. So Grantaire continued on alone.

He started to grow afraid that maybe Joly was right, that this wasn’t particularly useful. But he was right, he knew he was right. Marius was a lead. It was just a matter of time before he figured out how. In the meantime, he had the joy of watching Marius go to yet another cafe, sit down and set up his computer.

Figuring he might as well follow Marius for the rest of the day (Grantaire was nothing if not bored), he plopped down in the opposite corner of the cafe where he was able to keep an eye on Marius. And hack his computer from his cell phone. His computer name was easy enough to figure out (Napoleon) as was his password (also Napoleon). Grantaire had full access to Marius’s desktop, and could watch Marius’s computer activity with Marius being none the wiser.

Grantaire feared it would be just as fruitless as following Marius had been. First, he watched Marius Google “how can you tell if a girl likes you”, “how do you flirt”, “how do you know a girl is flirting with you and not making fun of you”, and finally, “how do you ask a girl out”. He then either gave up or got the answers he needed, because he started to do some German homework. After a quarter of an hour spent doing this, Marius received a text and immediately stopped reading. He pulled up his phone, looked up, past Grantaire and out the window. His eyes tracked the motion of something, before he turned back to his phone and sent a reply. Grantaire subtly turned around and saw a man whose face he recognized: Gueulemer.

Gueulemer was a notorious businessman who had a ridiculous amount of money, which was especially surprising since by all accounts the man was a moron. Of course Grantaire always maintained any idiot could get rich, the trick was staying rich. But Gueulemer stayed rich. Very rich. The rumors of extortion, bribery, blackmail and friends in high places explained Gueulemer’s wealth. And would also make him a prime target for Les Amis.

Evidently poor Marius was stuck staking out Gueulemer in a coffee shop in front of his office building. Well, let him. Grantaire had research of his own to conduct. And he could always swipe Marius’s phone later and see the texts he sent. Snatching up his cup, Grantaire hurried outside. He rounded a corner, when an arm reached out from behind him and dragged him into an alleyway.

He was slammed against a wall, hidden from any passersby by a dumpster and found himself face to face with Eponine.

“I’m impressed. Not a lot of people can sneak up on me, Ms. Jondrette. Or should I say Ms. Thenardier?”

“You shouldn’t say anything unless it’s an answer to a question I ask you,” Eponine said, flicking out a switchblade and holding it to his neck. “You’re following Marius.”

“So are you.”

The cold metal pressed a little into his skin. “That wasn’t a question so it didn’t require an answer.”

Grantaire waited patiently. He was fairly sure he could overpower Eponine in a fight. She was scrappy and had an impressive police record to be sure, but Grantaire was bigger than her and had been in his fair share of tussles, not to mention had extensive hand-to-hand combat training. But sometimes having someone interrogate you was a great way to have them inadvertently reveal information about themselves. So he waited until Eponine asked:

“Why?”

“He was a lead so I could find out more in the Amis.”

Eponine squinted at him, but apparently accepted this answer.

“Why do you want to know more about them? Are you going to turn them in?”

Grantaire knew she really meant was he going to turn Marius in.

“Call it knowledge for knowledge’s sake.”

“And that’s it?”

“What other reason would I have?” Grantaire asked, exasperated. “Look, I’m not trying to turn in your little gang. I just am curious about Enjol-everyone has planned. From a former detective point of view, it’s all very interesting.”

Eponine tapped the flat of the blade against Grantaire’s neck, contemplating his answer. “Courfeyrac was right,” she said eventually.

“Courfeyrac was right about what?”

Eponine didn’t even scold him for speaking when not questioned. She actually stepped back, releasing him. She was smirking.

“Courfeyrac was right about what?” Grantaire repeated.

She laughed outright. “It’s even more hilarious that you don’t know.”

Eponine started to walk away.

“That’s it?”

She stopped at the mouth of the alley. “I’m not letting you go as a favor. I’m letting you go because this situation amuses me. But cross them and I kill you.”

Grantaire blinked, and she slipped away.

 

 

When Grantaire got home, he fully intended to have a nice cup of tea (he’d prefer something a little stronger, but Joly was so convinced he was making progress, he would refrain for now), cyberstalk Gueulemer, and try to deduce the Amis’ plans. The universe, as usual, had other plans for him.

As soon as he came in, he noticed an extra pair of shoes by the front door. It was house policy that anyone who came in had to leave their shoes at the main entrance. Joly was very strict about this rule, insisting shoes were unsanitary and were not welcome on his carpets and floors. Grantaire glanced at the black Doc Martens. Based on their size, he had a good idea who they could belong to. As he drew closer to the kitchen, the low voice that was conversing with Joly confirmed his suspicion.

“Grantaire!” Joly said, spotting him enter from behind Enjolras. “Enjolras was telling me the funniest stories.”

“Old heists?” Grantaire asked.

“Combeferre’s birthday party last year,” Enjolras replied. “Courfeyrac was a little too enthusiastic.”

Grantaire nodded, waiting for Enjolras to get to the point, since they all knew this wasn’t a social call. Silence enveloped the room. Joly cleared his throat. “Well I have...science I need to get to.  Research on electromagnetic fields and sleeping patterns...you know what, it’ll be too complicated to explain, so I’m just going to…”

And he abandoned Grantaire to Enjolras’s intense scrutiny.

“You followed Marius.”

Grantaire had of course expected Eponine to rat him out, especially if her precious Marius were threatened, but he had hoped she wouldn’t have done so quite so soon. That’s what he got for hoping.

“He’s cute.”

Enjolras glared. “You stalked him around the city because you think he’s cute.”

“I love the gangly freckled type. Plus have you seen his butt?”

“I have not.”

Grantaire shrugged. “You’re missing out.”

“You’re trying to get in on our next job,” Enjolras said, cutting to the chase.

After debating for a few seconds on whether or not playing dumb was a good idea (he quickly decided it wasn’t), Grantaire responded. “And what if I am?”

“I’d advise you to stop.”

“And if I don’t?” Grantaire was genuinely curious what Enjolras might do to him.

"I don't understand," Enjolras said, ignoring the question. Grantaire understood from his tone that Enjolras not understanding was a rare occurrence, and one that he did not care for. "You wanted to find out who we were. You did. We let you help take down Bamatabois. You have no intention of turning us in to the police. Why are you still investigating us?"

It was an excellent question. One Grantaire had trouble answering himself.

“I was bored.”

Enjolras sighed, seemingly out of patience. Not that he ever had much to begin with. “You live in a major world city. I’m sure there is a more interesting case nearby. Occupy your mind with that, and stay out of our way.”

“Aye aye, captain,” Grantaire saluted.

Enjolras stood up, surveying him coldly. Grantaire hated when he looked at him like that. He knew he was being judged, and was always found lacking.

“Look, I don’t have any investment in your vendetta. Do whatever the hell you want. See if I care.”

“I’m glad we’re on the same page,” Enjolras said, his words clipped. “Please thank Joly for his hospitality.”

Almost as soon as he was gone, Grantaire grabbed his laptop and plugged in Gueulemer and started Googling.

 

 

Joly sighed forlornly as they inched forward in the coffee line. “I hate you sometimes. Really, really hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

“Do too,” he said, pouting. “I was watching the telly.”

“Come on. It’ll be hilarious. More hilarious than the telly.”

“The telly won’t potentially shoot me,” Joly snapped, taking another step forward, and okay, fair point.

“Can you just give us a pot of black coffee and pour it in these?” Grantaire held up several thermoses.

The barista raised her eyebrows, looking behind Grantaire. They were the only other customers still waiting to be served.

“I’ll pay you whatever you want,” Grantaire said. The barista shrugged and took the thermoses from Grantaire.

“Seriously hate you,” Joly said as they shuffled over to wait for their coffee.

Grantaire smirked. “Come on. This is going to be funny.”

“If they don’t shoot us,” Joly muttered.

“Bossuet likes you too much for them to shoot you.”

“And what about you?” Joly retorted.

Grantaire shrugged. The Amis wouldn’t shoot him. Murder wasn’t really their style.

He glanced impatiently at his watch. They should have left slightly sooner, but Joly had fussed over what shirt to wear since he would in all likelihood see Bossuet again, and he wanted to impress him, but not be too obvious that’s what he was trying to do and...to be honest Grantaire tuned him out after that.

Once the thermoses were returned, they hurried outside and caught the Tube back to Gueulemer’s office building.

“Are you sure it’s tonight?” Joly asked as they slipped through the delivery entrance.

“Of course,” Grantaire said, holding the door to the emergency stairwell open. “Gueulemer is selling the painting at the end of the week. He comes in and out of his office so sporadically that it’s nearly impossible to predict. Except tonight, he has a business meeting in Liverpool, so he’ll be out, and take most of his security entourage with him.”

“Explain again why we’re sure Gueulemer is a target?”

“He was on the board of directors at Corinth Corp. We know the Amis are targeting him soon because Marius was following him, and Enjolras was skittish enough to confront me. And the sale of the painting is this week.”

“And how do we know--”

“Gueulemer bought the painting less than a year after the Corinth Corp scandal. Whatever went down there, obviously Enjolras thinks he had a hand in it, and was well compensated for it. He probably bought a Delacroix with some of that blood money, if you want to call it that. So what’s more fitting than stealing it?”

“Fine. And we’re taking the stairs because?”

“No security cameras,” Grantaire said.

“What floor is Gueulemer’s office on?”

“Top one. And no, you don’t hate me.”

Joly’s glare said otherwise, but was slightly undermined by the fact he was wheezing slightly. Despite Joly’s darkly muttered threats, they did make it to the top floor, and with time to spare. Deducing the pincode to open the main office was easy, and picking the lock to Gueulemer’s office was practically a cake walk.

“And now we wait,” Grantaire said.

Joly flopped down on the desk, his cheeks still flushed from the exercise. “My limbs are jelly.”

Eventually, Joly’s breathing returned to normal, and he stopped telling Grantaire how he was the worst person alive, and they both fell silent. After about half an hour of waiting, Joly pulled out his phone and started playing some ridiculous game or another. He had a short attention span. For his part, Grantaire settled back in Gueulemer’s big swivel chair and listened to the silence of the building. He closed his eyes and waited.

After another half an hour or so, he noticed a shift in the building. A faint humming- probably the distant elevators. And then there were the voices.

“It’s not that I don’t think you’re capable,” he heard Enjolras say. “But you’ve never actually gone in with me before during a mission.”

“It’s a Delacroix, Enjolras, a Delacroix,” came an excited voice Grantaire wasn’t familiar with.

“I know. And use my code name.”

“But you don’t really know,” the voice said mournfully. Then as an afterthought. “Orestes, you philistine.”

Joly slipped off the desk and crawled under it. Grantaire swivelled the chair around so he was facing the window, away from the door.

“I don’t know why I have to come,” said another, deeper voice. “It’s not like there’s anyone to punch.”

“It’s a precaution.”

Grantaire heard someone working on the lock, and the door swung open.

“There it is,” sighed the first voice. Grantaire knew they were looking at the magnificent painting hung opposite the desk.

Now was his moment.

He flicked on the desk light, spun the chair around. “Goooood evening.”

He might have been wrong when he said Enjolras wouldn’t murder him. He looked furious, and if Grantaire died tonight, it would have absolutely been worth it for the look on Enjolras’s face, a strange mixture of surprise that was quickly melting into rage.

“What are you doing here?”

“Hi!” said the small blonde man to his side. He bounded over and shook Grantaire’s hand. “It’s so nice to meet you in person. I’m Je-, I mean, when we’re on missions, I’m Calliope.”

Enjolras stalked over, and turned off the desk light with more force than was strictly necessary.

“What are you doing here?” he repeated. “You said you were going to stay away.”

“No, I said I’d stay out of your way. Semantics are important. Carry on with your little robbery or whatever. We were just enjoying the view, weren’t we, Joly?”

Joly scooted out from under the desk and handed Grantaire some coffee he had poured into a styrofoam cup.

“We certainly are, boss,” he said, taking a sip of his own.

“Coffee?” Grantaire said innocently, holding up a thermos.

“You are absolutely, without a doubt, the most irritating-”

“Enjolras? Schedule?” Grantaire could heard Combeferre’s voice crackling from Enjolras’s earpiece. He couldn’t tell for sure, but it sounded like Combeferre was amused.

“Right. Hercules?”

The tall, muscular man chortled, but spread his arms and lifted the painting off the wall. Still fuming, Enjolras removed the canvas from the frame. He was about to start rolling it, but Calliope yelped.

“No. You’re going to be mean to it.”

“Be mean to it? It’s a painting,” Enjolras said, exasperated.

“Philistine,” Calliope said again, pointing an accusatory finger at Enjolras. He delicately rolled the canvas up and put it in a cardboard tube he had on his back. Enjolras handed Hercules an identical tube. Hercules pulled out a replica of the painting, put it back in the frame, then hung it back up.

Grantaire stood up to examine the handiwork. It was a flawless replica. He wondered how they had copied it so perfectly. Really, if he hadn’t know it was a fake, he might have walked past it except for, “The paint. This type of paint hadn’t been invented in Delacroix’s time,” he said.

“Yes, well done,” Enjolras snapped. He held his hand out to Calliope to get the original, but Calliope practically cuddled the tube.

“I’ll protect you from the big scary man,” he whispered, caressing it.

“Let’s go,” Enjolras said. He raised an eyebrow expectantly at Grantaire and Joly. Hercules flexed a few of his muscles hopefully, so Grantaire thought perhaps it would be best to obey.

“Why do you love that Dela-dude so much?” Hercules asked Calliope.

“Are you kidding me? He’s one of the Romantic greats!” he said, sounding mortally offended. “And his work is a fine example of Orientalism, which is a fascinating thing to study. It’s an important factor to understand the Europe and Asia that’s still relevant to today.”

“Enough with the art talk,” Enjolras said, prying the elevator open with a crowbar he had hidden in his jacket.

They clamored in the elevator shaft and onto the top of the elevator. Enjolras kept a firm grip on Grantaire’s arm, as if Grantaire had anywhere to run, even if he wanted to.

“All set,” Enjolras said into his ear piece.

The mechanisms started whirling and the elevator moved up rapidly. It stopped just below the ceiling, where a hatch was already open. A harness attached to a rope was tossed down. Calliope climbed in first. He winked at them as he was pulled up. When the harness came back down, Hercules grabbed Joly and helped secure him. Enjolras was glaring at Grantaire, and Grantaire was a little afraid when Hercules went up next. Maybe Enjolras was going to shove him down the shaft.

“You next,” Enjolras said coldly.

And that was a little bit of a relief. Grantaire hopped in the harness as soon as it came down. Just to be obnoxious, he saluted at Enjolras as he was pulled up. To his surprise, it was Combeferre who helped him out.

“I thought you delegated at a distance,” Grantaire said.

“Sometimes,” Combeferre said, tossing the harness down.

“Where’s Calliope and Herclues?”

“They went with Courfeyrac to Gueulemer’s flat.”

Grantaire ran through what he already knew and deduced. “Of course. They replaced the original with a fake, so when Gueulemer sells it later this week he’ll be arrested for fraud. And when his flat is searched and the original is found, it’ll just seal his fate.”

“Precisely.”

“Is there no such thing as secrecy any more?” Enjolras grumbled, his head appearing out of the shaft. “Are we just going to tell everyone all our plans?”

“He figured it out,” Combeferre shrugged.

“We need to talk,” Enjolras hissed to Grantaire.

“I can’t wait. But maybe let’s move this to another venue.”

“Wait for it,” Combeferre said. He switched on his microphone. “Hephaestus? Status?”

“Clear. We’ll see you at the rendezvous.”

Combeferre packed away his mini command station in a matter of seconds. Before Grantaire could say anything, he climbed over the ledge of the building. But instead of plummeting to his death, he just looked over at everyone else. “Well?”

Grantaire and Joly edged over, and saw Combeferre standing in one of the lifts window cleaners use to access the outsides of buildings. There was just barely enough room for the four of them to squeeze in. Once they reached the ground, Combeferre wiped down anywhere they had touched, and gestured to a side alley where a cable van was waiting.

Grantaire and Joly piled into the back where they saw Feuilly and Bossuet. Bossuet let out a delighted cry and hugged Joly. Combeferre got in the driver’s seat, while Enjolras sat shotgun. As soon as the doors were closed, Combeferre drove away. He wasn’t speeding in a way that would cause suspicion, but he drove efficiently, and with purpose.

“Coffee anyone?” Joly asked.

“We brought some to share, but then we were rudely rushed out,” Grantaire added.

“I’ll take a cup,” Combeferre said. When Enjolras glared at him, he added defensively, “It’s been a long day.”

Joly passed the coffee up to Combeferre and poured Bossuet and Feuilly some.

“So what were you all doing then?” Grantaire asked Feuilly casually.

“Don’t,” Enjolras said from the front. Grantaire wasn’t sure if that was directed at him or Feuilly.

He cast his eyes around the van and landed on a large duffle bag. “That’s money, isn’t it?”

Feuilly gave the tiniest of nods.

“So you also broke into Gueulemer’s office and staged a fake robbery.”

“Technically it’s not a fake robbery since we did steal a lot of money,” Bossuet said, forcing himself to stop smiling and staring at Joly. It would have been creepy, except Joly was also having a hard time looking at anything that wasn’t Bossuet.

“It was a misdirect,” Grantaire said, adjusting. “You guys, what, left a note? So Gueulemer thinks his money is gone. Then in a few days he’ll be busted for selling a forged painting.You want the public to know the Amis stole from him, to publicly shame him, but no one can suspect you had anything to do with the switch, or the fraud charges won’t stick. Hence the misdirect.”

The tiny smirk Feuilly shot him was enough confirmation.

“Interesting hypothesis,” was all Enjolras said.

“Fabricated charges,” Grantaire said thoughtfully. “I mean, stealing from the rich, giving to the poor is one thing. But setting someone up to be thrown in jail for something they didn’t do? That’s something else.”

When Grantaire tracked them down this evening, he thought they were just going to steal the painting so Gueulemer couldn’t sell it. This was different, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

“Maybe he deserves it,” Enjolras said.

“So you get to be the jury and judge now too?”

Combeferre pulled up in front of Enjolras’s flat. Feuilly, Bossuet and Joly silently climbed out of the van.

“Don’t talk about things you know nothing about,” Enjolras said.

It was tempting, oh so tempting to point out that the law and breaking it was Grantaire’s area of expertise. But he got out of the van.

“I don’t want to see you again. Ever,” Enjolras told him.

 

 

Grantaire lit a cigarette. He sat on an upturned food crate just outside the back of a restaurant. It had been two weeks since he last saw Enjolras. He heard footsteps approaching, rapidly. He stayed seated.

The door flew open, and Enjolras hurried out, flanked by Courfeyrac and Hercules.

“You guys go back to the van. Tell Odysseus if I’m not back in 5 minutes to leave without me. I need to find something to set the fire alarms off with, then I’ll be with you.”

Grantaire cleared his throat. The three men whirled around. He held up his lighter. Courfeyrac and Hercules exchanged quick smirks, then took off in the opposite direction.

Enjolras snarled, and grabbed Grantaire by the front of his shirt, taking him and the lighter back into the building. Grantaire had a feeling that when Enjolras was done with this job, he would have a thing or two to say to Grantaire. He was looking forward to it.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! [Come talk to me](http://babesatthebarricade.tumblr.com/).


	5. A Game

After Grantaire crashed a few more stake-outs, Enjolras seemed to accept that he would be a part of the Amis from now on. Grantaire was under no illusion that he had won him over. It just made no sense to keep fighting him. Why waste the time and energy when Grantaire might be a useful ally? The rest of the Amis had accepted him and Joly into the fold almost instantly. Grantaire thought half the reason they were welcomed was the way he and only he could make Enjolras lose his cool. It seemed to amuse them.

Although Enjolras no longer tried to actively stop Grantaire from joining them, he still didn’t seem exactly pleased with him as an addition to their group. When Courfeyrac had invited Grantaire to one of their planning sessions, Enjolras had nearly blown a gasket. It was there that Grantaire had finally learned that Hercules’s real name was Bahorel and Calliope’s was Jehan. There seemed to be only one other member of the Amis that Grantaire hadn’t met – someone by the codename Artemis, but Courfeyrac assured him that Enjolras was the only one who knew Artemis’s real identity. He was even more protective of them than he was Feuilly.

“What’s your code name then?” Grantaire asked.

Courfeyrac tilted his head. “Take a guess?”

Grantaire pursed his lips. “I’m observant, not psychic. I’m supposed to guess what mythological figure you named yourself after? There are thousands.”

Courfeyrac grinned, pleased at having asked a question Grantaire for once didn’t seem to have the answer to. Grantaire wracked his brains.

“It wouldn’t be one of the major gods,” he said. He had already noticed that Enjolras (Orestes) and Combeferre (Odysseus) not chosen the names of the main gods. He figured that by not choosing something as obvious as ‘Zeus’ or something like that, they were attempting to confuse anyone trying to figure out the hierarchy of the Amis. Courfeyrac was clearly the third ringleader, and so it would make sense that he would have also chosen something less major.

Courfeyrac shrugged. “Give up?”

Grantaire didn’t give up. Well, he did. But he did it less since meeting the Amis. He rifled through all the tidbits of information he had collected. He had noticed a ‘P’ written down on one of the schematics, and had figured it had to do with Courfeyrac. He thought about what he knew of Courfeyrac’s personality. And it had to be a Greek figure, to match everyone else...

“Prometheus.”

Courfeyrac’s jaw dropped. “You liar!”

“What?”

“You are psychic.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes, and couldn’t help but feel a little smug. “Stealing something valuable from the powerful and giving it to the people? Seems right up your alley.”

He knew he had guessed the rationale correctly, even though Courfeyrac shrugged. “I just like fire.”

“Prometheus was punished horribly for what he did,” Grantaire said. It was the wrong time to bring it up, but it was always the wrong time. He was afraid for the Amis. They were good, they were very good, but if they kept pissing off some of the wealthiest, best connected people in society, they were tempting fate. He had mentioned this a few times, and been assured they weren’t going to be doing this forever. There was an endgame, and the Amis were confident they could evade the law long enough to avoid detection, and that they had done a good enough job covering their tracks so they wouldn’t have to keep checking over their shoulders for the rest of their lives. But still Grantaire worried. Because he liked the Amis. He genuinely cared about them, and in Grantaire’s experience, the people he cared about always got hurt.

“Prometheus got caught,” Courfeyrac said, smirking cockily at Grantaire. But he leaned forward and squeezed Grantaire’s knee to reassure him. 

Both men looked up when a shadow fell across them. It was Enjolras, holding a clipboard.

“We were talking code names,” Courfeyrac said.

“Yes, I know. That’s why I’m here,” Enjolras said. “Grantaire doesn’t have one yet, and he needs one before the mission tomorrow night.”

Grantaire felt a thrill run through him that he got to have a code name. He knew Enjolras wasn’t doing it to make him feel included. It was a necessity, for his and everyone else’s security. But still, it was another step towards Enjolras accepting him.

Enjolras raised his eyes expectantly.

“How about…Pylades?” Grantaire suggested softly before he could think better of it. His eyes flickered to Enjolras’s face to see if he would understand the implication. That Grantaire would help him with everything last iota of his energy, that he would follow him anywhere. He didn’t know what had come over him. But he would- help Enjolras, follow him. He didn’t know why, he just knew that it had only taken weeks for his life to suddenly orbit around the brilliant blond boy in front of him. He tried to tell himself it was because Enjolras was such an interesting puzzle he was itching to solve, but he had an inkling that even if he ‘figured out’ Enjolras, he would still stick around.

“No,” Enjolras said.

“No?”

“Pick another name.”

“Why, is Pylades taken?” Grantaire asked, knowing very well it wasn’t.

“No.”

“Then why?”

“Because you’re only doing it to annoy me.”

“Oh, yes. Everything I do has to do with you,” Grantaire said, hoping if he said it with a sarcastic enough tone, it would disguise the fact that this was unsettlingly accurate.

Enjolras huffed. “Choose another name. Dionysus, perhaps?”

The jab at his alcoholism stung almost as much as Enjolras’s rejection of him as his Pylades.

“He’s working on being sober you complete and utter dick,” Courfeyrac snapped. “Put him down as Pylades.”

Enjolras looked almost chastised. “Fine.”

He scribbled it down in short, stiff strokes onto his paper then stalked back over to where Combeferre was putting finishing touches on a map.

“He’ll come around,” Courfeyrac said gently.

Grantaire shrugged, like it didn’t matter one way or another. It shouldn’t. “Lots of people don’t like me. It’s one of the hazards of being an asshole.”

Courfeyrac frowned. “You’re not an asshole.”

Grantaire shrugged again.

“You’re not,” Courfeyrac insisted. “You’re just a little rough around the edges.”

“Meaning asshole.”

Courfeyrac sighed, but he dropped it for now.

 

 

Being close to the Amis all the time meant Grantaire was able to observe them at their most vulnerable moments. While the rest of the Amis seemed to accept him as one of their own, he knew Enjolras was still suspicious of him.

Of course, he had good reason to be, since Grantaire was technically investigating him and his friends. He had no intention of going to anyone with what he found, but that didn’t mean he had given up on deciphering their plans and Enjolras’s motives. It was simply the most challenging and therefore entertaining puzzle he had had in ages.

The thing that confused him the most was the order in which the Amis targeted their victims. It wasn’t based on the hierarchy of Corinth Corporation at the time. One of their first targets had been the CEO of the company at the time of the scandal. Enjolras was ramping up, not down, so the order couldn’t be based on a traditional corporate structure. The conclusion he reached was both simple and complex. Enjolras must be targeting people based on their perceived level of guilt. The guiltiest parties would be his grand finale. Simple enough reasoning. This of course meant Grantaire had get in Enjolras’s head and deduce who he thought was guiltiest. That was slightly more complicated.

Because Grantaire had been over the Corinth Corporation scandal. He had followed the story in passing when it broke. Of course, it had been more than 10 years ago, so Grantaire could have missed something. 10 years ago, he was still training to be a detective. It had seemed obvious to him back then, that Enjolras’s dad was the main culprit, so he hadn’t paid that much attention. But Enjolras had reached a different conclusion, and he had done that using information Grantaire didn’t have. Grantaire got some old case files from the few contacts he had left in the legal field, and had even hacked into the digitized archives of various government agencies. There was hardly any information there he didn’t already know. What was troubling was the distinct  _lack_ of information. For a scandal that big, there should be more information  _somewhere_. But until he found it, Grantaire didn’t know how to figure out what exactly Enjolras was going to do next. 

All he could do was review information he already knew, and hope he’d find a new angle.

“Joly! I need you!” he shouted. Silence. “Joly, I’m trapped under my bookcase. Help!”

Grantaire grinned as a stampede of steps came rumbling towards his room. Joly appeared, dressed in his boxes, with half his face covered in shaving cream. He scowled when he saw an unharmed Grantaire spinning around in his swivel chair.

“You  _asshole_ ,” Joly snapped.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Were you busy?” Grantaire asked, batting his eyes innocently. “Couldn’t have been that important. Anyway, I need you to be a human sounding board.”

Joly rolled his eyes, but sat down. “You know, Jehan has a few human skulls. I’m going to ask him for one so you can talk to it instead of dragging me down here every time you need to brainstorm.”

“I didn’t drag you anywhere,” Grantaire protested. “You came running.”

Since it looked like Joly might actually hit him, he hastily pulled up some articles on Corinth Corporation onto his laptop and handed it to Joly.

“Oh God. You’re obsessed,” Joly muttered.

“Why shouldn’t I be? As long as we associate with the Amis, this affects us too. Now let’s go over what we know.”

“Okay,” Joly exhaled, then recited, “Corinth Corporation, specialized in technology. A little over twelve years ago, some of their weapons prototypes were found in…Belarus?”

“Bulgaria,” Grantaire corrected him. “With the Bulgarian mafia, as it were. Which was troubling, since Bulgaria is right next to Serbia and close enough to Turkey and Russia to be of concern.”

“The government started investigating. The more they poked around, the more prototype weapons and tech seemed to pop up all over the world in places they shouldn’t be.”

“Correct,” Grantaire closed his eyes and leaned his head back. This wasn’t helping.

“More investigating, yada yada yada, and Henri Enjolras, that is our Enjolras’s dad, is found to have millions in off-shore accounts and other sketchy places. The money was traced back to the illegal sales. Enjolras Sr. denies all knowledge of this, claims he’s been set up. The evidence against him was overwhelming. Then right before his trial, he pens a confession before hanging himself.”

“That’s the gist of it,” Grantaire sighed.

“It seems straightforward,” Joly said mournfully.

“Exactly.  _Too_ straightforward.”

Joly groaned. “I thought the simplest solution was usually the right solution. Now you want to unravel a conspiracy?”

“I want to know what our Enjolras knows,” Grantaire turned to his idea board. “We just have to get to the bottom of a decade old mystery to figure out the endgame of our scary vigilante friends. That’s all.”

“I hate you sometimes,” Joly sighed.

  

 

“Joly, wake up.” Grantaire poked Joly with a very long stick. He had learned the hard way that the usually sweet Joly could be violent when woken up at a certain level of sleep deprivation.  

The look on Joly’s face when he finally wrenched his eyes open confirmed that the stick was the right choice. “ _What_?”

Grantaire threw the article he printed to Joly who squinted at it. “What am I looking at?” he said finally, his voice still thick with sleep.

“A picture from a gala thirteen years ago.”

“As a medical professional, I know so many ways to kill you and make it look like an accident.”

Deciding it was safe to at least sit on the edge of the bed, Grantaire inched forward. “A gala where Felix Tholomyes, who was COO of Corinth, was photographed talking with newly elected MP Thenadier.”

Thenadier was now a well-known politician, having been in office for over a decade. He always reminded Grantaire of a used car salesman. He could be jovial and charming and persuade you that you really did need a piece of junk. But there was something him Grantaire never fully trusted. His smile never seemed completely sincere, nor did it ever meet his eyes.

Joly rubbed his eyes. “Okay. So they talked. Once. At a huge event.”

“I did more digging, and it looks like Tholomyes made a donation to Thenadier’s initial campaign.”

Finally, Joly seemed to be getting on board with Grantaire’s theory. “Anything since then?”

“No. But, if they’re in as deep as I suspect they are, then I don’t think we would be able to find any more donation history. The one I found was probably a careless mistake they made at the beginning of their partnership. And I won’t be able to find many more public events together. Not unless their mutual attendance could be written off as a coincidence.”

“So this is a hunch,” Joly said.

Grantaire had to stop himself from growling in frustration. Sometimes he forgot people didn’t make the same leaps he did, and he had to slow down and explain it to them.

“Having unapproved weapons end up in the hands of criminals abroad is a  _big_ deal,” Grantaire said, trying to be patient. “Corinth Corporation should have been shut down and investigated from top to bottom. All of its executives should have frankly been put on trial, possibly for treason. Instead, it continued to function for several years before it merged with Tholomyes’s current company. None of the executives were extensively investigated. That’s bullshit. It only makes sense if they had someone pulling some strings. Thenadier could have done it. He’s incredibly wealthy, but it’s new money. There have been plenty of whispers about corruption in his office. Nothing solid, but mostly because whoever he accuses is silenced, somehow. I can’t say it’s definitely him, but it warrants looking into.”

Joly was frowning, which  _seriously_? He couldn’t argue that Thenadier was definitely fishy, and that he could very well be the grand finale Enjolras was leading up to. Grantaire was 99.9% sure it was Thenadier, and yes, a lot of that was based on coincidence, but the way the coincidences lined up, plus that nagging feeling in Grantaire’s gut meant he just needed a tiny bit of evidence before he was positive the pieces would fall into place.

“You know Thenadier just announced he’s running for Prime Minster, right?” Joly said, looking pale.

Grantaire swore loudly. No, he hadn’t heard that bit of news. “Since when?”

“He announced it last night,” Joly said. “When I was being a normal human and watching the news and not doing whatever it is you were doing.”

Of course something of note happened when Grantaire was otherwise occupied. He was usually very good at keeping up with the news, even though it bored him. The news never changed. It was the same cycle of destruction and deceit and despair over and over and over again. The stories were the same- it was just the names that occasionally changed.

“It can’t be Thenadier,” Grantaire said.

“But you just said-”

“I know what it said, but if Enjolras is planning on going after Thenadier, that means he’s not only going after a sitting member of Parliament who is incredibly petty and vengeful but also powerful. It means he’s going after someone who’s about to launch a major campaign. Someone who suddenly has a lot more to lose, and whose surely numerous equally powerful and vengeful contacts also suddenly have a lot more to lose. Surely Enjolras wouldn’t be that stupid.”

Even as the words left Grantaire’s mouth, he knew Enjolras was that stupid. It was the perfect time to strike Thenadier down- while he was powerful, but not too powerful so as to be almost untouchable. And if Enjolras was able to take down Thenadier, he would probably manage to nab a lot of other corrupt politicians, or shady businessmen, or other people in power who shouldn’t be.  _If_ he caught Thenadier. It was a big if. Enjolras wouldn’t be the first to try.

“Oh my God, it’s Thenadier,” Joly groaned.

“I have to talk to him,” Grantaire said lowly. “ _Reason_ with him. He’s going to get himself killed. Tortured first, probably. Definitely killed though.”

“No offense, R, but, I don’t think he’ll listen.”

He had to. Enjolras just had to. “I need to know what he has on Thenadier and Tholomyes. So I can try and reason with him.”

This time, Joly was nodding along. It wasn’t in an indulgent way. He was scared too, Grantaire realized. He was scared for Enjolras and was clinging to the same desperate hope that Grantaire might reach him with logic.

“I’ll try to ask around discreetly,” Joly said.

 

 

Neither Joly nor Grantaire had much success. For the next week or so, the Amis planned a job on one Claquesous. This confirmed Grantaire’s suspicions the Amis were operating on a hierarchy of guilt, not what their victims’ positions on the corporate ladder. Claquesous had only been a one of Tholomyes’s secretaries, and yet, Enjolras seemed especially motivated in stealing a priceless painting, a lot of money, and –

“His _dogs_?” Joly asked, horrified.

Enjolras pointed to the picture of the two Corgis. “This man is _evil_. We are liberating his two innocent dogs and finding them a good home.”

“They’re his dogs though,” Joly said. “Won’t they be sad?”

This devolved into a debate about the ethics of dognapping, and if stealing people’s pets was a fair punishment or not. Grantaire used the opportunity to try and poke through Enjolras’s private papers, but he had to abandon these efforts when Combeferre glanced over.

Grantaire hid his frustrated huff. He had spotted an envelope which had what looked like an old photograph poking out. In the photo, he recognized a few of the Amis’ past victims. So hypothetically, the rest of their targets could also be photographed. There was also what looked like an itinerary (if he could just see _whose_ itinerary it was…) and an old newspaper clipping spilling out of the stuffed envelope. It was really hard to see much more without being obvious.

For the time being, Grantaire rejoined the conversation, where the consensus was they wouldn’t steal the Corgis, but would keep an eye on them while Claquesous’s fate played out.

“If they’re being mistreated, I know a guy,” Bahorel said, cracking his knuckles.

“A guy for what?” Joly asked warily.

“A guy who owns an animal shelter,” Bahorel said. “He can find a good home for the little fur balls.”

With the matter of the Corgis decided, they started wrapping up. They were meeting at Enjolras’s home- for once. Of course they were discreet about it, leaving in small groups when it was time to go, and leaving from the back entrance. Combeferre stood by the door, making sure everyone staggered their exits appropriately. Grantaire and Joly were the last two to leave. Enjolras already started tidying up. When he thought no one was looking, Enjolras took the envelope from earlier and put it in the drawer of the massive desk that took up most of the living room’s back wall. Enjolras put it in a concealed bottom, then locked the drawer, and put the key in his pocket. Grantaire quickly looked away before Enjolras could see him watching. He swallowed. He knew what he had to do.

 

  

Grantaire wasn’t proud of breaking into his friends’ apartment, disabling the alarm system, and breaking into Enjolras’s private drawer. But he was so close, and when he was on the trail like this, he became obsessed and single-minded. He might feel slightly guilty in the morning about this, but his satisfaction at solving a mystery always outweighed any lingering doubts about his methods.

It took him just minutes to pick the lock. In it was the folder from earlier, which he eagerly peered into. And yes, there was a photograph of the old Corinth Corporation board at some event, a generic itinerary that could belong to anyone, and a newspaper clipping about Corinth Corporation merging with another company and what that meant for stocks. And the rest? The rest of the file was filled with Enjolras’s essays for his classes. Completely useless. (Actually, Grantaire might read them just to read some of Enjolras’s writing. But for his purposes today- useless).

“Did you really think _that_ was where I keep anything of actual value?”

The light clicked on. Enjolras was seated in an armchair that until two seconds ago had been enveloped in darkness.

“Sit.”

It wasn’t a request. Grantaire chose the settee opposite him. Enjolras sat immobile, surveying Grantaire, judging him. Finally, he spoke.

“What do you want?”

“The truth.”

“I’ve told you plenty of truths,” Enjolras said dismissively.

“And plenty of lies.”

Enjolras shrugged. “That’s the world we live in. We lie.”

“But you lie about what our mission is by pretending it’s not personal. That affects me directly.”

“No one is making you work with us,” Enjolras pointed out.

Grantaire ignored him. “I’m just saying, I’ve helped you. You haven’t wanted me to. I don’t ask for anything.”

“Except cheap thrills.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“No,” Enjolras tilted his head. “You’re here because you find us all so interesting, right?”

The scorn in his voice was biting. Grantaire wanted to correct him. He wanted to say actually, he only found Enjolras interesting. Yes, the other Amis were interesting in that he enjoyed their company, and was even on the verge of considering them friends. But only Enjolras was an interesting puzzle that kept him up at night. But he didn’t say that. Instead, he met Enjolras’s intense gaze and snapped, “And what if I am?”

Enjolras spread his arms and presented himself with a flourish. “Deduce me.”

Grantaire scoffed. “If it were that simple, don’t you think I would have already?”

“So ask me.”

For a second, Grantaire thought he had misheard him. Enjolras never gave him any information that wasn’t necessary to a task immediately at hand, let alone offered it freely.

“What’s the catch?”

Enjolras smiled innocently. “Well, if you get to ask me deeply personal questions, I think it’s only fair I get to do the same to you.”

That wasn’t the answer Grantaire was expecting at all, and for a minute, he was thrown. In his weeks of observing and thinking about Enjolras, it had never occurred to him that Enjolras might also be observing him with any sort of curiosity. Of course, he had been aware Enjolras was watching him, but it had seemed like it was in a ‘if you even think about betraying my friends I will know and I will skin you alive’ kind of way.

Grantaire nodded. He suspected he wouldn’t very much like the questions Enjolras would ask him, but fair was fair. And learning more about Enjolras was worth whatever questions he was about to ask. He tried not to get too excited. He was positive Enjolras was trying to find out his weaknesses. 

Not too long ago, he overheard Enjolras and Combeferre talking.

“If I could just figure out his Achilles’ heel,” Enjolras had said.

“Why? So you can try to blackmail him?” Combeferre had asked dryly.

“As insurance in case he tries to cross us.”

“He won’t,” Combeferre had responded confidently.

“How do you know?”

“I actually think his weakness is fairly obvious,” Combeferre had sounded amused. Then he refused to elaborate, much to Enjolras and Grantaire’s consternation. Enjolras was exasperated his second in command refused to share what he thought was vital information, and Grantaire was appalled at the notion he had such an obvious weakness he himself didn’t know about.

Given that Grantaire had heard that conversation about a week ago, Enjolras’s new readiness to open up to Grantaire couldn’t be a coincidence. For Enjolras, nothing was above being bartered when it came to getting what he wanted. Not even his private life he had before so fiercely guarded.

“You go first,” Grantaire asked.

“What happened in the Butcher of Brixton case? Why was that different from the countless other cases you solved?” Enjolras asked immediately.

Grantaire laughed. “Straight to the point, aren’t you?”

Enjolras only blinked at him impatiently. He had obviously expected candor. Apparently when it came to exposing deepest secrets, Enjolras was a ripping the Band-Aid off kind of guy. He’d rather both of them get the uncomfortable truths from each other as quickly as possible and get it over with. Unfortunately for him, Grantaire was disinclined to disagree.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“This isn’t supposed to be fun.” Enjolras seemed frustrated. 

“Really? It seems kind of like a game to me,” Grantaire said, wriggling back in his chair and making himself comfortable.

“Unlike you, I don’t have time for games.”

“It seems like all you do is play games.”

“When they’re necessary to achieve a goal. It seems here the best way for us to get information here is to just ask each other candidly.”

“If you get creative with your questions, you might find out more,” Grantaire said. It was true, in his experience. Asking exactly what you wanted to know usually meant the person would only answer the direct question. (Assuming they weren’t lying). Asking questions in a more roundabout way was usually a good way to pick up on new information you otherwise would have never thought to ask. It was also a good way for Grantaire to prolong his conversation with Enjolras, since he didn’t know the next time they would sit down and have an actual conversation.

“Fine. Why did you first want to join Scotland Yard?”

Grantaire tried to follow Enjolras’s train of thought. Denied information on the end of Grantaire’s career, he sought information about the beginning. Grantaire could see the logical progression, but it didn’t match what he thought Enjolras’s goals were. Surely Enjolras had already thoroughly researched him and could see he had no childhood trauma that might manifest itself as a hindrance in his adult life.

“I didn’t,” he said frankly. “I was recruited.”

Enjolras pursed his lips as he processed it. Grantaire could see the wheels in his brain turning, but he gestured for Grantaire to go.

“What? No follow ups?” Grantaire quipped. 

“Of course there are. But it isn’t my turn.”

Grantaire snorted. “I’m surprised you care so much about game rules.”

This earned him a severe look. “Rules and laws are put in place by people to govern and create order. The idea behind them is important. It is part of what makes civilizations. If you’re going to go through the trouble of breaking a rule, there has to be a reason, otherwise you threaten to undermine the will of other people.”

“It’s just a game,” Grantaire said.

“It’s your idea of who I am,” Enjolras corrected him. “You seem to think I’m some kind of anarchist who breaks rules for the sake of breaking them. And I’m telling you that’s not true. If I break a rule or a law, it’s only after I’ve considered if it is the right thing to do. In this case, my curiosity is not reason enough to disrupt the flow of our discussion.”

“So severe, even in your pleasures,” Grantaire muttered. “Have you always been this way?”

“For as long as I can remember,” Enjolras said. He paused. “Why were you recruited?”

“What about my question?” 

“You just asked it,” Enjolras said, smirking.

“That didn’t count.” Enjolras just raised his eyebrows at him. “Fine. I was recruited because I was caught breaking into the National Gallery at night because I wanted to be alone with the art. Luckily for me, the detective I ended up with took a shine to me. She thought I was clever, and that my random repository of knowledge and obsessive pursuit of information could be useful. So instead of throwing my ass in juvie, she made me her apprentice.”

He didn’t need to say the rest. While the National Gallery incident was usually kept quiet by Scotland Yard, the fact that he was 14 when they created a special program for talented youths so he could study with Floreal was something anyone with access to the internet could find out. Just like they could Google how he had graduated from Oxford at the age of 16 with degrees in Art History and Philosophy. Even as he continued to study with Floreal, he dabbled in law, classics, and different sciences, and anything else that interested him. A prodigy by all accounts. His thirst for knowledge was insatiable. There was a required amount of time everyone had to serve as a police officer before they could apply to be a detective. Grantaire served them, then immediately was hired as Scotland Yard’s youngest ever detective. These were facts he was positive Enjolras already knew, so there was no point in telling him. Grantaire hated to dwell on his past anyway.

"My turn. How do you feel about your father?”

Enjolras pursed his lips. He was apparently discovering first hand how unenjoyable it was to have such direct personal questions aimed at oneself.

“I love him,” Enjolras said, like it was the simplest thing in the world, when it had to be anything but. Loving Henri Enjolras could not be an easy thing to do for a son so dogmatically dedicated to justice and fighting corruption. “But of course I feel sad when I think about him. And angry.”

“Why?”

“No follow up questions. You have to wait your turn,” Enjolras said with a small smirk.

“So your turn again. You know for someone who said he wouldn’t cheat, you seem to be very good at manipulating this game.”

There was a pause, Enjolras framed his next question. Grantaire braced himself.

“Where is Floreal now?”

Enjolras had evidently decided once again the most direct route was best. Grantaire swallowed. If Enjolras asked a blunt, straight to the point question, he would get a blunt, straight to the point answer.

“She’s dead.”

“Why did the-”

“No follow up questions. You have to wait your turn,” Grantaire parroted, trying to ignore his dry throat and sweaty hands. “Why don’t you hate your father?”

“I did. For a very long time. What they said he did – giving such destructive technology to people who used it for nothing but evil - it was unforgivable. They said he did it for the money. And he killed himself rather than face justice. What sort of coward does that?” Enjolras swallowed. “After my father was arrested, I was sent to live with my grandparents, and it was easy to hate him then. In fact, they encouraged it. They never thought my father had been good enough to marry my mother. She of course, was one of the first to turn on my dad. So for years, it was reinforced how awful my father was. I decided to study law at a young age, so I could prosecute bad people like my father. I couldn’t escape his shadow, but I thought I had to at least try and lessen it. To atone for his sins.”

Enjolras stopped. For a moment, he said nothing, but stared blankly in the space in front of him, tapping his cheek as he constructed his thoughts. There was something vulnerable about his expression. Just as Grantaire was starting to feel privileged at seeing this side of Enjolras, the cool mask was back on, and Enjolras tucked his emotions away. It must be exhausting, Grantaire thought. He wished Enjolras trusted him enough to be more open with him. Grantaire would gladly help him carry his burdens.

“I always knew that I was heir to a rather sizable fortune,” Enjolras said, his mouth twitching in distaste. “I had assumed most of it came from my grandparents. But when I was a teenager, I found out the bulk of my inheritance came from my father’s late estate.”

“And you found that idea repulsive,” Grantaire prompted him, careful not to phrase it like a question.

“Abhorrent,” Enjolras agreed. “It was important to me that I trace the money and find out where exactly the money came from. Corinth Corporation hurt a lot of people. I wanted to find out exactly who had paid my father, so I could figure out who those people had hurt and try and compensate them, in some way. But the more I followed the money trail, the more I realized the money all came from legitimate business deals. Which in a way made sense, since the government seized any assets they could prove were illegal. So I thought I had to trace the illegal money trail to get to the bottom of it all. It was difficult, obviously. People didn’t want this information to ever see the light of day. It was hard work, but eventually, it led me to Georges Pontmercy.”

“Marius’s dad,” Grantaire muttered.

Enjolras nodded. “Georges was my father’s secretary. He told me the truth. My father hadn’t known about all the corruption at Corinth. Not at first. When he found out, he tried to put a stop to it. He didn’t realize how deep the corruption ran. Nearly everyone was in on it.  They had to be, or they’d never have been able to keep it quiet for so long. They tried to get my father to join them. He refused and turned them in. My father was made the fall man. And why not? Almost everyone else was in on it- it was the majority word against one. And it must have been easy for all of them to manipulate the evidence.

Father initially wanted to fight and clear his name, but Georges thinks the conspirators threatened me to make him cooperate. So to protect me, my future, my  _inheritance_ ,” Enjolras practically spat the word. “He killed himself. And I had hated him for it.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Grantaire said. He doubted his meager attempts of comfort were of any use to Enjolras.

“I should have. He was my father and I had no faith in him. Once Georges convinced me that he was telling the truth, I realized my father deserved none of my anger. I deserve my anger. The rest of the board members at Corinth and everyone else responsible deserve it.”

Grantaire felt a chill run up his spine as he imagined the retribution Enjolras had in mind as he worked his way through the guilty parties. He almost wanted to ask. But he couldn’t. It wasn’t his turn.

“Why did the Butcher of Brixton kill Floreal?” Enjolras asked. Harsh as it was, Grantaire had to admire the economical way he asked his questions. Most people would be gentler, but most people weren’t Enjolras. He wasn’t going to waste a precious question asking for information he already guessed, or to spare Grantaire’s feelings. He was getting too close to what he wanted – the details of the case that had been kept out of the newspapers.

“Because of me,” Grantaire said. “He wanted to get to me. I was getting close, so he took her. Every time I made a break through, he’d send me a little piece of her. Just before I finally caught him, I came home and found he had taken what was left of her reassembled the parts on my living room floor.”

That shouldn’t have been a shock to Grantaire, considering that was the Butcher’s calling card. But nothing could ever prepare him for a sight like that. Yes, he had gotten the Butcher, but the Butcher of Brixton also gotten him. Grantaire had self medicated with some alcohol and some lighter drugs from a young age. After he closed the case, ‘some’ alcohol had become a lot, and the drugs became more serious. He had almost bungled the trial because he was barely sober enough to testify. He didn’t need to tell Enjolras the rest. His fall from grace had been very public, and it wasn’t something he particularly wanted to recount. It was only when his father hired Joly to rehabilitate him that he was able to start to live something that resembled a life again.

“My turn,” Grantaire said.

Grantaire swallowed. Enjolras had gotten the information he wanted, so Grantaire knew their game was at an end. He had to consider how to spend this last, precious question. He could ask who else was going to be on the list. He could ask and confirm that Thenadier and Tholomyes were Enjolras’s endgame. He could ask so many things, and he chose to ask something he knew. Even as the question was forming in his head, he could hear what Enjolras would say. Why ask then? Perhaps because he was a masochist. Because he wanted to get his hopes up. Because he wanted to foolishly wish he was wrong and Enjolras would surprise him.

“Would you ever walk away from this?”

Enjolras frowned. “No. Why on Earth would I do that?”

“Because of everything your dad did for you. What he gave up to protect you. Wouldn’t he want you to be safe and happy instead of risking your freedom by getting revenge? Aren’t there other ways you can change the world? No one’s on to you yet. You can walk away. Won’t you consider it while you still can?”

His last question came out as more of a plea than query.

The corner of Enjolras’s mouth twitched. “That’s an awful lot of questions.”

“Yeah. Answer them.”

Enjolras considered him. “There’s no way of knowing what my father would want. I never really had a chance to know him, and now he’s dead. And yes, there  _are_ other ways to change the world. Combeferre for one, is a big believer in education. And one day he will do something great. But there aren’t other ways for  _me_ to change the world. I’m committed to purging the world of some evil people who commit evil deeds. And so no, I won’t consider walking away. I won’t begrudge anyone if they want to leave, but I won’t. Not until the job is done.”

A small piece of Grantaire’s heart broke, because while he was convinced Enjolras’s father would have wanted more for his son, _Grantaire_ wanted more for him too. Enjolras deserved a life in the world he envisioned. He didn’t belong in the shadows. He was a creature of light.

“And when will that be?”

Enjolras stood up. “I think you’ve asked more than your share of questions. Good night.”

He clicked off the light and padded back to his room, leaving Grantaire alone and in the dark. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More heisting next time! (And next chapter we will meet Artemis, the last member of the team...) Sorry for the long time it took to update. Hopefully this chapter wasn't too much of an info dump....
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! [Come talk to me](http://babesatthebarricade.tumblr.com/).


	6. A Gala

After their heart to heart, Grantaire was secretly hoping that maybe his and Enjolras’s relationship would change. Maybe Enjolras would start trusting him a little more. They had shed their defenses to each other, if only for a moment. But if anything, Enjolras seemed even more wary around Grantaire. Grantaire wondered if it was because he had seen Enjolras vulnerable (or as vulnerable as Enjolras was capable of being), or because he had dared ask Enjolras if he would ever stop his crusade.

Enjolras gave no indication to anyone else that there had been a shift in his and Grantaire’s relationship. Grantaire doubted anyone really picked up on it. Anyone except Combeferre, who missed nothing in their small group. Enjolras continued talking to Grantaire much like he always had. But he still watched him carefully, much like he always had, never quite letting his guard down. Grantaire tried not to take it too personally.

 “So it’s a pretty simple job, right? Get in, get the paintings, get out? Boom, bang, done,” Bahorel said, clapping his hands. They were getting towards the end of another long planning session.

“Not quite,” Combeferre said calmly.

“Of fucking course not,” Bahorel grumbled.

Enjolras clicked to the next slide. “These paintings we’re taking are intended for a public auction our man Brujon is hosting to raise funds, we assume for his quite alarming personal debt. Thank you Bossuet for finding his records.”

Joly shot Bossuet an impressed look. Bossuet winked. “I’m more than a pretty face you know.”

“He’s an ex-law student. Quit halfway through a lecture after telling our professor to fuck off.” Bahorel said, high-fiving him.

“That’s the first set of paintings,” Enjolras continued, as if there hadn’t been an interruption.

“So there’s another set we’re stealing.”

“No.”

“Thank goodness,” Feuilly exhaled. Enjolras and Combeferre had just walked them through a very detailed report on the security at Brujon’s house that Enjolras had made after weeks of research and surveillance. They had been ready to pull their job on Claquesous, when at the last minute, Enjolras said there was another target who was a priority.

“We’re actually not stealing anything. We’re just moving some paintings Brujon is planning on selling at his second, secret auction and putting them with the art for the main, legal auction.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Bahorel said, banging his head against the table.

Courfeyrac kicked him. “Pay attention.”

Enjolras clicked to the next page, showing some blurry photographs of several paintings and sculptures. “These are the other art pieces. Brujon got them on the black market. They were originally looted during WWII by the Nazis and have been in private hands illegally ever since. We’re going to take them out of his safe, and put them in the public auction space without him realizing. Everyone will walk in expecting to see Brujon’s private art collection and instead will see his illegal collections.”

“We’re not going to steal it,” Courfeyrac clarified.

“It would be hypocritical of us to steal his paintings, get him arrested for buying paintings from the black market, then _sell_ his stolen paintings. This way, the stolen art can finally be reunited with their rightful owners.”

“It’s….” Bahorel scratched his head.

“Mad. Completely mental,” Feuilly supplied. “But it we pull it off…kind of poetic. And brilliant.”

“And why is Brujon’s collection suddenly priority over Claquesous?” Grantaire asked. “I mean, it’s art, right? Who cares which we collection we steal first? We already have Claquesous’ planned out.”

Combeferre took off his glasses and carefully polished them. He did that when he was gearing up to do something unpleasant. “Yes, well, Enjolras, through his solo surveillance-”

Huh. There was a slight emphasis on ‘solo’. Combeferre was _angry_ with Enjolras, Grantaire realized. Or at least upset. It was the kind of upset Joly got with him when he thought Grantaire was being unnecessarily reckless. No one else reacted to Combeferre’s tone, so perhaps no one else noticed.

“-that Brujon’s auction has been moved up. It was originally going to be a few months from now, but it will now be this Friday.”

“This Friday. Like two days from now this Friday?” Jehan clarified.

Enjolras smiled broadly. He was the only one. Everyone else was either burying their head in their hands, or staring at each other in disbelief.

“Enjolras?” Joly asked tentatively. He seemed concerned that Enjolras might be having a mental breakdown.

“This is good,” Enjolras said, looking surprised he had to explain it to them. “Guys, this is _good_.”

“Please explain that to us. _How_ is this good?” Feuilly said.

Enjolras looked around the room for support, for anyone else to nod along with him. Seeing none, he sighed, the smile not leaving his face. “It means we’re getting to him! Brujon moved his event because of _us_. He’s scared. We’re inside his head, and considering the shit Brujon has been involved with over the years, with no reprisals, that’s kind of amazing.”

Courfeyrac rubbed his forehead. “Yes, Enjolras, it’s amazing that we have a big, scary criminal scared of us. It’s actually really cool, and it’s totally going in my diary, but it doesn’t change the fact that this will be the least prepared we’ve ever been.”

“They’re not prepared either. This event was supposed to be months from now. Moving it up means they’re out of sorts. And you’re forgetting one other thing.”

“Which is?”

“We’re _us_ ,” Enjolras said, still supremely unconcerned. “We’re the best group of thieves ever assembled. I have so much confidence in each and every one of you and your strengths. As individuals, you’re all amazing. And as a team, we’re unstoppable. We haven’t failed yet, and we won’t fail now.”

Courfeyrac and Bahorel were sporting broad grins now too. Feuilly was nodding and Jehan was listening, rapt with attention. Even Grantaire felt himself getting swept up in Enjolras’s rhetoric. Only Combeferre seemed to still have reservations, and it was he who Enjolras turned to.

“I’m with you. You know that,” Combeferre said, finally. “I trust you. Always have, always will.”

Enjolras clasped Combeferre’s shoulder and squeezed, a simple gesture that seemed to ease the remaining tension out of the room.

“So if the gala is Friday, should we go Thursday night?” Feuilly asked.

“I was actually thinking a big gala is a perfect time to break in,” Enjolras said casually.

 “I’ll get my tux,” Courfeyrac said gleefully.

 

 

No one got much sleep over the next few days. Not even Eponine, who banged on the safe-house door on Friday morning, looking distinctly disgruntled and exhausted. When Feuilly slid open the door, she handed open a manila envelope, then walked away.

“Very chatty girl, that Eponine,” Feuilly said, joining the others for coffee and breakfast that Combeferre had forced on them.

“Should Eponine have a codename?” Joly asked.

“I think if we tried to give her a codename, she might stab us,” Bossuet said, buttering his toast.

“Why would you think that?”

“Because she told us.”

“Invites are here,” Feuilly said to Enjolras, who walked in, looking disgustingly well-put together considering it was only 8.

“Perfect,” Enjolras said briskly.

 

 

Grantaire would say that Enjolras cleaned up nicely, but that would imply that there was a time in Enjolras’s life when he didn’t look like he had just wandered off a runway. Courfeyrac stood next to him, looking dashing in a tux while the rest of the Amis loaded up their mobile command center that was disguised as a catering van.

“Let me help you with that,” Courfeyrac said.

“What?” Bahorel said, who was holding a small box of clothes with one hand.

“You need help,” Courfeyrac said slowly and deliberately. “Let me help you. Grantaire can put on Enjolras’s tie for him.”

“What?” Enjolras said, looking up from his accessory troubles. “But you always do it.”

“Yes. I do need Courfeyrac’s help. Thank you,” Bahorel said. He handed Courfeyrac the box, then scooped up Courfeyrac.

“That seems like a really inefficient way to load!” Grantaire called after them. (Courfeyrac’s “wheeee!” as he was carried off bridal style by Bahorel was all he got for a response.)

“Do you mind?” Enjolras asked gruffly, and no, Grantaire didn’t.

He stepped forward and took Enjolras’s tie, looping it through. “I don’t know how you, a brilliant mastermind can’t figure out a tie.”

“I never claimed I was a brilliant mastermind.”

“No. But I did.” Grantaire examined his work critically, then ran his hands over Enjolras’s shoulders to smooth the suit. “You look almost respectable.”

He was rewarded with a small smirk. “Well that’s about all I can really manage.”

Courfeyrac peered around the corner. “Sorry to interrupt-”

“You’re not interrupting anything,” Enjolras said.

“Damn,” Courfeyrac muttered to himself. “Anyway, Enjolras, the car is here. And Grantaire, we’ll see you, right?”

“Yeah. See you.” Grantaire echoed, watching them go.

 

 

Grantaire adjusted his earpiece. This was one of his favorite parts of his job: going out in disguise in plain sight. He was a minor celebrity, though he was loath to admit it, and he hated it. He never wanted to be famous, circumstance just made it that way. He had always preferred to be in the background, observing. (It was part of what made him such a good detective in the first place). He liked being around people, but not necessarily interacting with them, which had become hard in the past few years. Being in disguise was really the only opportunity he had anymore.

His disguise was a pretty good one. He was a waiter, which automatically made him an anonymous member of the party. Joly had managed to tame his curls, so he could pass as a professional. He wore colored contact lenses so his blue eyes were now brown. He finished the look off with a prosthetic nose.

"You could have been a make-up artist," Feuilly said admiringly. One of his many jobs was at the catering company that just happened to be working the event. He called out sick, and told his boss he would get his friend to fill in. Feuilly’s skills were needed elsewhere for the night, so Grantaire would take over his waitering job for the night.

"Yeah, a make-up artist. Or an actor," Joly said. "Watch him."

Joly looked at Grantaire expectantly, and really, who was Grantaire to disappoint his friend? He sighed and hopped out of the van they were gathered in. It was to be that night’s mobile command center. Instead of moving with his usual slouchy shuffle, Grantaire adopted a brisk gait, shoulders back, head high, confident, but not drawing too much attention to himself -every inch the professional catering staff member. Bahorel whistled approvingly. 

"Whatever we're paying you, it's not enough."

"You aren't paying me anything."

"Well I just said we weren't paying you enough, didn't I?"

“You ready?” Combeferre said, adjusting some settings on the rather intimidating communications system control board.

“I was born ready,” Grantaire winked.

 

 

Inside, Enjolras was with Courfeyrac, chatting to an old lady who was positively dripping with diamonds. It was a testament to how charming Enjolras was that Grantaire didn’t even detect a flicker of annoyance on his face. He must have known as Grantaire did that you never knew who was watching, and a single second of slipping out of character could ruin everything.

Sometimes Grantaire wondered that Enjolras made so many public appearances, being in attendance at events when the Amis struck. But it made sense; Enjolras wanted to be in the thick of the action to control the situation, and also so he could bear the brunt of any fallout.

Not to mention, that out of all the Amis, Enjolras (and Courfeyrac to an extent) could blend in the best. Enjolras was born into these social circles. And as much as Enjolras hated it, he really seemed like he belonged, the golden society boy.

Speaking of society golden children….at that moment, Cosette Fauchelevent walked in, turning heads and breaking hearts. She was the adopted daughter of Jean Valjean, a famous philanthropist and a bit of an eccentric popular culture figure. He had made his fortune in manufacturing. When he reached a certain bracket of wealth, fame was bound to follow, so it came out that he had been in prison in his youth. No one really batted an eye at that, given that he had given away most of his money to charity, and when he wasn't working or spending time with his daughter, he was doing charity work. His large muscles and unbelievable strength seemed so out of place in a kindly, gray-haired old man, and had inspired several memes, cementing his place in pop culture.

Cosette was something of a socialite in her own right, except instead of being photographed stumbling out a nightclub, she was frequently seen rescuing baby animals and running food drives. She was pretty, she was fashionable, and she was sweet. She was also elusive. While the press dogged her footsteps, wanting do know what the beautiful daughter of a multi-millionaire did in her free time, and who she was dating, Cosette side-stepped them all, using her fame for good instead of personal gain. 

For a moment, Grantaire wondered why she was there. But he then remembered she was an active patron of the arts. She probably wanted to bid on a piece so she could donate it to a museum or something. 

Her mere presence would be an additional distraction, which could either be very good or very bad. Grantaire’s gaze flickered back to Enjolras, as it had a habit of doing. Enjolras had excused himself from his original conversation partner and was strolling around the room, nodding politely and exchanging pleasantries. Courfeyrac had sidled up to one of the security guards and was batting his eyelashes at him. Grantaire glanced at his watch. From the security guard’s body language, he guessed it would be child’s play for Courfeyrac to lure him away in the next half hour – right on schedule.

“Pylades, Orestes just texted me,” Combeferre said over the earpiece. “We are on schedule. He said Artemis is in position.”

Who the hell was Artemis? And when the hell had Enjolras managed to text Combeferre? Grantaire had been watching him nearly the entire time. He should be glad Enjolras was using his skills for (mostly) good, because the man was a criminal force to be reckoned with.

Grantaire just nodded his head once, knowing Combeferre was watching the security feed. He proceeded to make the rounds, carrying a tray of hor d’ourves, and keeping Enjolras and Courfeyrac in his periphery all the while. After about fifteen minutes, Enjolras made his way over to him.

“Excuse me, waiter, but I need another drink.”

“Certainly, sir,” Grantaire said. “Let me get another one. What were you having?”

Enjolras’s eyes flickered to the side. He too must have spotted the gaggle of older women who were looking Enjolras up and down appreciatively and were no doubt waiting for their opportunity to pounce and bore Enjolras to death with small talk and flirting.

“I’ll go with you,” Enjolras said quickly. “No one seems to be able to fix a good drink around here.”

He side-stepped his disappointed admirers with a charming smile and followed Grantaire to the bar, which was blissfully empty. Grantaire slid behind the counter, getting a confused look from the bartender.

“This gentleman wasn’t satisfied with his first cocktail,” Grantaire said. “So he asked me to make him another one.”

He grimaced apologetically at the bartender, who nodded curtly.

“Certainly,” he said, looking offended. “I’ll go see if any of the other guests need a refresher.”

“What can I get you?” Grantaire asked once the bartender left to walk around the floor.

“Vodka martini,” Enjolras said, by which Grantaire knew he meant ‘water’. Someone else had gotten Enjolras’s first drink for him, and since it actually had alcohol in it, he wouldn’t drink it.

“Shaken or stirred?” Grantaire asked, raising his eyebrows. Enjolras rolled his eyes. Grantaire shrugged and made a big show of assembling Enjolras’s cocktail of water, water, and more water. He topped if off with a few olives.

“Better make a second one,” Enjolras said, swiveling around in the barstool, so he was facing the crowd, and the security camera. He downed his martini and slammed the empty glass on the counter. Grantaire slid him a second one.

“Go easy, sir. Those things will sneak up on you.”

Enjolras quirked his eyebrow, taking a sip of his water.

“Guys, Courfeyrac is with the security guard,” Combeferre said in their ears.

“Thanks for the drink,” Enjolras said, toasting Grantaire. When he hopped off the stool, he gave a little drunken stumble before straightening himself. In another life, he could have been a film star, Grantaire thought.

He let the bartender reclaim his spot and watched Enjolras’s retreating figure. Enjolras made sure to ask several other attendees if they had seen his friend. If Courfeyrac did his job properly, that meant Joly and Bossuet would soon have the codes to get into the vault.

Grantaire frowned. His ear was filled with a staticy sound that could only mean the comm system was down. His mind immediately flew to Enjolras. Enjolras was out of the camera’s view and was right now taking down the security guard Courfeyrac was distracting. He could be in danger of being caught and no one would know. Grantaire wasn’t even aware his feet were moving until he was halfway down the hallway.

“Where are you going?” the catering supervisor shouted after him.

“Need to get more ice,” Grantaire said over his shoulder, not breaking stride. Enjolras might need him.

He maneuvered through throngs of people, only just barely restraining himself from crossing in the middle of the dance floor. It was more efficient, but would draw attention to himself, and he wouldn’t care, but drawing attention to himself might draw the wrong kind of attention to Enjolras. It seemed like forever until he was able to get to the back corner of a side hallway, and he was greeted with the sight of Courfeyrac and the security guard, both unconscious on the ground.

And there was someone else kneeling over them too: Cosette Fauchelevent.

At the sound of Grantaire’s footsteps, she looked up from when she had been examining the still bodies, and her face collapsed into relief. Grantaire’s first thought was _fuck_. Artemis was supposed to sound the alarm, and here Cosette Fauchelevent was about to ruin it all. No one was supposed to find Courfeyrac for another ten minutes at least.

“Oh thank goodness!” Cosette said, wide-eyed. “I was trying to find the kitchens to get my father something, and I got lost, and I found them! Please help me.”

Grantaire was in a terribly awkward predicament. He could let the plan (and probably his friends) be discovered, or knock out the girl who just hosted a fundraiser for the Make-a-Wish foundation. Fuck.

“Miss, are you okay?” Grantaire said, taking a step towards her. He would have to knock her out in the least painful way possible, which would involve the element of surprise. After all, he didn’t want to scare the poor girl as well.

Cosette was starting to hyperventilate and ramble, and good God, Grantaire was going to be stuck here forever if he didn’t do something soon. Cosette actually seized him, and clung to him, holding him firmly in place as she sought comfort. Grantaire eyed her neck, visualizing his next movements, when he noticed her necklace. It was a simple, and silver, with two charms: an arrow and the moon.

“ _Artemis_ ,” he breathed.

Cosette hadn’t been checking on the security guard’s vitals. She was stealing his key and stalling any passersby.

She suddenly stopped her hysterics and met Grantaire’s gaze, a sharp intelligence clear in her eyes. She squinted at him before finally speaking again.

“Pylades,” she returned. “You’re supposed to be at the vault.”

“I—“ It wasn’t often Grantaire was shocked, but it seemed to be happening more and more lately. “You’re-“

“Waiting to sound the alarm, which I can’t do until you clear the vault.”

 “I have questions for you later.”

“Oh, I bet you do,” Cosette said, grinning. “Now go on. I’ll stall.”

Grantaire found himself grinning too as he jogged down the hall. The vault was cracked open, and inside, Joly and Bossuet were already putting art pieces in one of the catering carts.

“What took you so long?” Joly muttered.

“I’ll explain later,” Grantaire said, helping pack the cart.

“You better.”

“…hello? Do any of you copy?”

Joly pushed on his earpiece. “Odysseus, this is Homer. We copy. What happened?”

“That was my fault,” Feuilly’s voice came over. “I knocked out the comm system temporarily. But I have access to the power grid whenever you’re ready.”

“This is Calliope. Hercules and I are in position.”

“Pylades?”

Grantaire rolled the catering cart out of the safe, a clean, white linen covering the art. “It’s a little late, but you’ve been looping the security feed, right?”

“Started just before Orestes knocked out Prometheus and the security guard.”

“Remind me again why that was necessary?”

Enjolras sounded indignant, even over the headsets. ”We needed the security guard alone to get the code, and Prometheus was able to do that. But he obviously couldn’t knock the guard out himself without suspicion falling to him, so I had to do it. But again, if Prometheus was unscathed, he would be a suspect. It had to be authentic looking.”

“Suuuure,” Bahorel said, sounding amused. “I think you just have been itching to get revenge on Cou-Prometheus for something. You do complain about how he leaves his dishes in the sink.”

“One of the first times I met him, he chastised Prometheus for not punching him in the face,” Grantaire reminisced. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

His ear was filled with the Amis’ laughter, and Enjolras’s indignant sputters.

“Yes, because I _needed_ someone punch me to divert suspicion. I would knock _any_ of you unconscious! In a heartbeat.”

Grantaire smiled broadly at the bizarre, sincere, threatening declaration of affection.

“Now, now,” Combeferre said dryly. “This isn’t the time to get sentimental, Orestes. Are we all in position?”

“Yes,” said Enjolras, albeit a little sullenly.

“Yes,” said Jehan.

“Ready,” Grantaire said.

“Then Orestes, you’re up. Pylades, I suggest you three get a move on.”

Grantaire, Joly, and Bossuet wheeled their stolen goods down the hall. Instead of going through the main ballroom, Grantaire took the service hallway; Joly and Bossuet walked behind him wearing security guard uniforms they had pilfered. Their hats obscured their faces, not that anyone paid any mind to them anyway. They were all busy with their own tasks. When they finally reached the back entrance of the gallery, Grantaire commed in.

“Odysseus, we’re set.”

“Orestes, you and Artemis are up.”

“Copy.”

Grantaire, Joly, and Bossuet stared at each other, straining to listen to what was happening over the earpieces. Crime wasn’t terribly exciting all the time. There was a lot of waiting around. Finally, they were rewarded for their efforts when they heard a loud scream.

“That’ll be Artemis,” Grantaire said, smirking. He could imagine the scene poor, sweet Cosette would cause when she ‘happened’ upon two unconscious bodies in the hallway.

“Perfect,” Combeferre said. “The two security guards posted in the gallery are clearing out. You’re good to go.”

 “What’s this?” Enjolras shouted. They collectively winced at the volume. Grantaire just wished he could be there to witness Enjolras’s fake fury in person. “That’s my friend! That’s Courfeyrac. I was looking for him for at least _ten minutes_ , and I find this? What the hell kind of party is this?”

Jehan opened the door a crack, and beamed when he saw the trio. He swung the door open.

“Welcome.”

Bahorel was lowering himself from the ceiling. He climbed out of his harness and waved at Grantaire.

“How very _Mission Impossible_ of you.”

Bahorel looked pleased. “Next time we should have a sound track.”

“Give us a hand,” Jehan called as they worked quickly to unload the cart. From the ceiling, Bahorel lowered another harness, full of easels, which he set about the room.

“Calliope is snippy because-”

“Because you almost gave us away,” Jehan snapped, throwing an empty harness at Bahorel, who cackled.

“We were just hanging, literally hanging from the ceiling, above the guards’ heads, and they didn’t notice.”

“Well they would have if you laughed!”

“But they didn’t.”

“Now, now, children,” Bossuet said. “Settle down.”

Over the comm system they heard what sounded like choking.

“Odysseus?” Joly said concernedly. “Odysseus, are you okay?”

Combeferre snorted, and Grantaire realized what sounded like choking had been Combeferre trying not to laugh. “I wish you could see the video footage. I think Orestes just made five people cry. He’s yelling at them about how could they have let some riffraff, and yes, that was his word, attack his dear friend Courfeyrac. Artemis is doing a good job drawing more attention…oh, okay. Brujon is now heading to his safe. They’re trying to clear out the hallway so he can check on everything.”

“How long does that leave us?” Grantaire asked, propping up a plaque in front of one of the easels.

“Less than five minutes.”

Jehan tilted his head, and scooted an easel over by several inches. “Perfect. We’re done.”

“Alright,” Combeferre said. “Hephaestus, you’re on stand-by. Orestes, you need to extract yourself. And the rest of you, clear out.”

“Copy,” Bossuet said.

Jehan and Bahorel exited through the skylight in the ceiling for no apparent reasons other than the fact that they could, and thought it was fun. Grantaire, Joly, and Bossuet filed out the way they came. Letting the other two slip away and go back to command center, Grantaire elected to stay so he could watch the rest of the job unfold. He easily made his way back into the crowd, who had been herded away from the scene of the crime (or one of the crimes).

He kept an eye out for Enjolras’s familiar blonde curls, but so far, nothing.

“Don’t worry,” Combeferre said. “He’s right on schedule. Okay. Brace yourself. Hephaestus, now.”

The lights went black, and the crowd panicked. There were screams and terrified mutterings. Grantaire felt someone walk past him and squeeze his shoulder. Then the lights came back on.

It didn’t take long for him to locate Enjolras, who stood about ten feet away from him. They locked eyes, Enjolras gave the tiniest smirk, then quickly looked just as terrified and confused as everyone else.

“What’s that?” Someone shrieked, pointing to where a key adorned with a large red bow stuck out of the double doors to the galleries. Grantaire resisted rolling his eyes. Enjolras certainly had a flair for the dramatic.

“Let’s go in!” Grantaire suggested loudly.

The people around him started nodding and murmuring their agreement. A few brave souls closest to the door turned the key and threw open the doors. And if Grantaire thought Enjolras was dramatic just a few seconds ago, it was nothing compared to the sight that greeted the gala guests.

Inside the gallery were the paintings and sculptures that Brujon had intended to sell. Next to each legitimate piece, was a piece Grantaire, Joly and Bossuet had liberated from the vault. A small plaque sat in front of each painting, listing the title, materials, origin, date, and the rightful owner. Spotlights highlighted the stolen work. And in the center of the room, on a table sat a black binder, and a rolled up piece of paper, tied up with a red bow: Orestes’ note condemning Brujon.

A few of the guests helpfully gasped. Grantaire had seen his share of dramatic crime scenes, and this one was a rousing success. It reached perfection though, when Brujon stormed in.

“What’s this? I didn’t say the gallery could be open yet. What are you doin-”

He stopped dead in his tracks and turned pale when he saw the display.

“How did…what’s…”

He looked ready to faint when he saw the piece of paper in the middle of the room. The wealthy all new Orestes’s M.O. by now. Especially wealthy people who had reason to fear a vigilante. If Brujon had had any doubts who was responsible for this evening before, he certainly knew now. Police sirens wailed as they drew near. And of course, Inspector Javert was the first person through the door.

“Everyone calm down. We had an anonymous tip of a break-in. We will need to interview every one of you as a potential witness.”

Brujon sputtered. “There’s nothing to see here.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Javert said briskly. “Now, if everyone would kindly settle down and wait to speak to one of my officers.”

It took another five minutes before any semblance of order could be seen and Javert’s men could start taking statements. With the police sufficiently distracted, Grantaire was able to weave his way through the crowd and over to Enjolras’s side.

“What was in the binder?” Grantaire muttered in Enjolras’s ear. He hadn’t seen Orestes’ signature note before Enjolras planted it, but he had expected it. It wouldn’t be anything revolutionary, just reasons Brujon was a terrible person, the heinous crimes he had committed, blah, blah, blah. Grantaire obviously knew about the plaques and the stolen art, since he helped arrange them. But the black binder…that was a surprise.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Enjolras said. Grantaire raised his eyebrows expectantly. Enjolras _loved_ talking about his work. He wasn’t vain, except for when it came to Orestes’ crimes. “I did hear someone say the binder contained documents showing the transactions when Brujon bought all the works in the black market. They prove he paid money for them, even though he knew they were paintings illegally seized in WWII.”

“What a blow for poor Brujon.”

“What a blow indeed,” Enjolras said. “And if I were to further speculate, I would guess whoever planted that binder there might have included the beginnings to a trail that would lead investigators down a path of more of Brujon’s transgressions.”

“If you had to guess.”

“Mmmm,” Enjolras agreed.

They didn’t speak much after that. Enjolras excused himself and went to ask after Courfeyrac, who was awake now, and was being examined by paramedics off to the side. Within ten minutes, Courfeyrac was being taken to the ambulance, and Enjolras was being questioned by police officers. When they were done, Enjolras was shepherded off to the side.

Combeferre swore. Grantaire waited for him to elaborate.

“Because Enjolras was one of the first people to find Courfeyrac, they want to ask him some more questions. They’re asking him to stay behind.”

As far as Grantaire knew, that wasn’t a big deal. Inconvenient, sure, but it’s not like the Amis were on a strict time frame or anything.

“I can’t strike this mission until the two of you get out of there. And the police are starting to scout the area. I think we disguised the van well enough for the time being,” Combeferre said. “We’re fine for now, but I won’t move the command center until you’re clear.”

Enjolras frowned, and even from across the room, Grantaire could tell what he was thinking. So could Combeferre, apparently, from over surveillance footage. They would probably be able to tell what Enjolras was thinking blindfolded. He hated the idea of his friends being stuck on his account. And it wouldn’t be long before the police got suspicious of the van, whether it was disguised as a catering van or not.

“Orestes, I’m not leaving you guys there with no eyes and ears,” Combeferre said firmly. “Just get out of there as soon as you can without arousing suspicion.”

Grantaire had no time to check and see how Enjolras took that order (probably not well), because suddenly he was approached by Javert himself, who had come to take his statement. Grantaire took more pleasure than he probably should, being interrogated by Javert, with Javert none the wiser who he was actually talking to.

“What’s your name?”

“Malcom. Malcom Reynolds.”

Javert jotted it down. “And you’re one of the staff?”

“Well, I was covering for a friend,” Grantaire said. “But yes, I was working the event.”

Javert nodded, when something caught his eye.

“Is he alright?” Javert barked, glancing at Enjolras, who had migrated closer to where Grantaire was being interviewed. Enjolras stared off into the distance, a troubled look on his face.

With no answer forthcoming, Javert sighed and strode over to Enjolras, putting a hand on his shoulder. Enjolras flinched, and turned to Javert, his wide blue eyes fixed on him.

“Yes officer?” he asked.

Javert fidgeted, uncertain how to deal with a clearly distressed individual.

“Are you alright?” Javert asked as kindly as he seemed able.

Enjolras nodded bravely. “Yes, I’m sorry, officer. It just reminds me of when the Amis…” he cut off, jerking his head to the side. He exhaled slowly, then like it took great effort, looked at Javert again. “The Amis broke into my home a little more than a month ago, and attacked me. This has brought back difficult memories, that’s all.”

Javert frowned. “The Amis broke into _your_ home? Was there an investigation?”

“My security company has been handling it privately. Mr. Babet assured me-”

A muscle in Javert’s face twitched. “Do yourself a favor, son, get another security company. There have been problems with Mr. Babet’s company in the past. In fact, I will follow up with him on his investigation into your break in. It might help our investigation.”

Enjolras chewed the bottom of his lip, truly distressed. “I apologize, Officer Javert if I’ve hindered Scotland Yard in any way.”

Javert waved away his apology. “This wouldn’t be the first time Babet has lead one of his clients astray. I’ll handle it,” he shut his notebook. “I do apologize, Mr. Enjolras that you’ve had to relive some unpleasant memories. I think we have all the information we need from you for now. Go home. If we have any follow up questions, we’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you, officer,” Enjolras said, shuffling towards the door.

Grantaire had to swallow the laugh that was threatening to bubble up. Javert asked him a few more standard questions, but seemed distracted. No doubt the mention of Babet had something to do with it. When Grantaire had worked at Scotland Yard, he often thought of Babet as an annoying mosquito that would never go away. The fact that he was now connected to the Amis, courtesy of Enjolras, must have made an impact with Javert.

At last free to go, Grantaire strode out of the mansion. “Taxi,” he said, flagging down a black cab.

“Evening, sir,” came Jehan’s distinct voice, though his face was buried under a bushy beard and obscured by a frankly, ridiculous wig.

Grantaire climbed in the back seat, where he found to his great amusement, he saw Enjolras, crouching on the floor, bundled in a blanket so as to hide his distinctive golden curls.

“There is a seat, you know,” Grantaire said.

“Too risky. Can’t let anyone see us together,” Enjolras said.

“Is this the standard getaway vehicle then?” Grantaire asked, recalling the time when Courfeyrac had picked him up in the same cab.

Jehan shrugged as he sped off through the London streets. “Black cabs are pretty hard to track in London. Just switch out the license plates, and you’re golden.”

Enjolras peered up at Grantaire through his blanket hiding place. “We did it.”

“We did,” Grantaire confirmed.

Enjolras beamed, before leaning and resting his back on Grantaire’s leg. Grantaire felt something warm bloom in his chest. Things might be okay after all.

 

 

“We need to talk,” Combeferre said, barging in, more agitated than Grantaire had ever seen him.

“Well, hello, Combeferre. Nice to see you too. You’re looking especially surly today,” Grantaire quipped as Combeferre stalked past him into the living room. He wished Combeferre hadn’t come. It was the day after Brujon’s failed gala. After hiding the van and the car in a safe location and making sure they weren’t being followed, the Amis had gone to Enjolras’s house and celebrated another triumph. Discreetly, of course. They had to take turns coming and going, making sure no one saw them there, and no one saw any of them together. Although he hadn’t drank, Grantaire was still recovering from the previous nights’ excitement and was groggy with sleep. Combeferre was being awfully loud.

Combeferre seized one of the large picture frames off the wall and flipped it around to reveal a small electronic device, which he promptly removed and switched off. Grantaire raised his eyebrows.

“Well, it’s not like I didn’t know you were bugging me.”

“And it’s not like I don’t know you’re still investigating us,” Combeferre countered. “We’re mutually cautious of each other, so don’t act like a victim. I’m not in the mood.”

“Well, what do I owe the pleasure of your visit to?”

Combeferre reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a stack of manila folders. “I need your help.”

Grantaire had only time to raise his eyebrows in surprise before Combeferre shoved the folders at Grantaire.

“Here. Look at these.”

Grantaire opened them gingerly, curious what could have upset the usually unflappable Combeferre so much. He pulled out what looked like a booklet of instructions, a few credit cards, and a passport, which had Combeferre’s picture in it, but not Combeferre’s name. Instead, it read ‘Ben Jordan’. The next folder was basically the same, except the passport had Courfeyrac’s picture. Another had Feuilly’s picture, then Bahorel, Jehan, Bossuet, Marius, Cosette, and Eponine. Grantaire was surprised to see even Joly got a packet.

“Those all have plans A, B, C, D and E in case something goes wrong.”

“That’s a lot of back up plans,” Grantaire said.

“They’re for varying degrees of how badly we fuck up,” Combeferre said. “A establishes alibis for us, C involves erasing any signs we even know Enjolras, and E is basically fleeing the continent and starting fresh with new identities.”

“So he’s prepared,” Grantaire shrugged, handing the papers back. Nothing about this particularly surprised him. Enjolras was meticulous, and he cared deeply about his friends. Of course he had contingency plans.

“Open the last one,” Combeferre said through gritted teeth.

Grantaire did and was surprised to see his own face staring up at him.

“But…he doesn’t even like me.”

“You’re one of us now,” Combeferre said impatiently, as if that should make sense to Grantaire. “Did you notice who he _didn’t_ make a packet for?”

The tiny bubble of happiness that had started to form quickly popped.

“That son of a bitch,” Grantaire breathed. “Are you sure Enjolras’s packet isn’t somewhere else?

Combeferre snorted, and fair enough. It was a stupid question. If Enjolras had made himself one, he wouldn’t have kept it separate from the others.

“Fuck.”

“This is what I was always afraid of,” Combeferre said. “Ever since he found out the truth about his father, he always talked about taking Thenadier down. Never anything about his life after that. I told myself it was because he wanted to do this properly and didn’t want to be distracted. But deep down, I knew- he doesn’t care about anything after this. It’s a suicide mission and it doesn’t have to be.”

He banged his fist on the table, and removed his glasses with a trembling hand.

“It might not necessarily be a suicide mission…” Grantaire said. “Maybe he’s going to turn himself into the police when he’s done.”

Which still was terrible, but at least Grantaire could work with it.

“If it were anyone else…” Combeferre said, shaking. “But he’s so fucking _dramatic_. What what’s more Enjolras’s style: turning himself in? Or getting himself killed by Thenadier to make sure Thenadier gets locked way for life, all while making one last huge dramatic point?”

"What are we going to do?" Grantaire said, feeling terror rising within him.

Enjolras, beautiful Enjolras couldn't sacrifice his life for the ghosts of the past. He couldn't. A world without Enjolras was almost incomprehensible to Grantaire. In the span of a few short months, Enjolras had become the singularly most important thing in his life. He had become the sun, and Grantaire couldn't imagine being thrust back into darkness if Enjolras were to be extinguished.

"I don't know!" Combeferre shouted, losing his calm for the first time since Grantaire had met him. "He's my best friend, and he's going to die, and I don’t know how to stop him. I can protect him from the police, even from the different criminals we've pissed off."

"But you don't know how to protect him from himself," Grantaire finished for him. "Of course. Because he's the stupidest, most stubborn, wonderful idiot in the world. And he's brilliant and determined, and trying to stop him is like trying to stop the sun from rising, and oh my god I'm in love with him."

That little something that had been nagging at him from the back of his mind anytime he spoke to Enjolras, or even thought about him, had surfaced. Grantaire was in love with him. He wanted to laugh - at himself, at the universe, because really, this was the most inconvenient time to realize he was head over heels in love with Enjolras. He couldn't believe he hadn't realized it before. Of course he loved Enjolras. He had since the moment he realized Enjolras was Orestes.

"You're a terrible detective," Combeferre snorted. "Truly awful."

"You knew?" Grantaire said.

"Everyone does. Even Marius figured it out."

"So Enjolras knows?"

"Everyone except Enjolras," Combeferre amended. "So basically the two smartest people in the Amis are also the two dumbest. A match made in heaven."

"I can't lose him," Grantaire said, clutching Combeferre's arm desperately. For some reason, the more hysterical he got, the more Combeferre calmed down. "Combeferre, I _love_ him. I-I can't. _He_ can't. We have to save him."

"I know," Combeferre said. "Why do you think I came to you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still reading this, thank you so much! I would knock you all unconscious because I love you. Next time expect R angst, more of Cosette and general criminal shennanigans. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! [Come say hi](http://babesatthebarricade.tumblr.com/).


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